Cadence of the Spring
by Gossamer Nightmare
Summary: Society is alive and dead, dying and living. Alfred F. Jones, the last of his kind, is in charge of killing the beasts that roam the lifeless mornings. When he finds Arthur Kirkland, however, everything he knows is turned inside out…
1. Chapter One

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter One-

**A/N: **Well, I decided to begin yet another series! This one is actually based off of a focus in my English class for the quarter. In my year, we focus on the different types of heroism—epic/classic hero, contemporary hero, tragic hero, and anti-hero. Right now we are in our focus on the contemporary hero, and I began to think of Alfred…and then this idea came about. So yes, this story is based off of the idea of the contemporary hero.

**Rating:** T, for blood and gore, coarse language, eventual adult situations, and horror in general. I'll try my best to actually _show_ these things, as I'm not entirely good at description just yet. Hopefully this will improve my writing skills as I go along.

**Pairing:** Eventual UKUS, though that's kind of implied through the characters…

**Summary:** Society is alive and dead, dying and living. Alfred F. Jones, the last of his kind, is in charge of killing the beasts that roam the lifeless mornings. When he finds Arthur Kirkland, however, everything he knows is turned inside out…

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The pretty lights in the pretty sky shine prettily upon the lit-up city at night. A sea of people flood the streets, dancing wildly to blaring music attached to the sides, limbs flopping, bodies bumping against one another, people wildly grinding on whatever they touch. Gaudy lights match the streamers that float between buildings, bearing too-bright lanterns in different shades, all the colors of the rainbow, casting their shapely shadows onto the chorus of whoops, hollers and loud music below. The people of this city dance with their shadows.

Night is the salvation of their people.

Alfred smiles down at the din of people below his high-rise, lofty apartment building as he stands out on his balcony. Multi-colored signs shimmer his face, his grin, his shining blue eyes and the words, "Slayer Alfred—Savior of the City!" This is true, of course. Alfred has saved the city many times over, has become an idol of sorts. People wear his face on shirts, cheer his name. They always request his presence at parties—he only accepts the invitations from those with the most wealth, the most famous musicians and politicians, the most beautiful heiresses and most certainly those that live in opulence.

His life has always been one of cheerfulness, content and sweet, blissful ignorance. Alfred is happy this way, he reasons, not knowing what's beyond those walls that block out the world outside, that hide the sun. He had only seen it once. A wild place of green and blue and brown, untamed and filled with the sounds of wild creatures and wild things he has never known, filling his brain with so many things he could not process them. As a child cannot understand things so complex, it is no seeing why he was frightened. That day he knew to never risk going out into the wild ever again. It was the land of savages, of people who thought it best to live as they did so many years ago. The land of Survivors.

"Time for bed," he speaks mostly to himself, greeted by the sounds of partying crowds below. Though people surround him, Alfred lives with no one, speaks with no one, for his job is in the morning when the city is asleep, feeding their needs of sleep, waking up when the sun is gone and no beasts trouble the borders.

Slayers take care of the beasts that attack their city. Slayers are the defenders of happy, ignorant mankind that spend their days on material things and shallow ways. Slayers are, unfortunately, few and far between.

No one wants to spend their time slaying beasts all morning when they could be partying the night away with friends, right? But someone had to do it. Alfred did it for the recognition. That and he was good at it.

Slaying beasts was about the only thing he knew how to do, aside from party. With his job, partying was few and far between. Sleep was his number-one priority at night. As many people said, "Slayers are only a step away from how things _used_ to be, after all!"

Alfred grins at the thought, though he's not quite sure why he does.

He is the only Slayer left in this city; this city is the largest in its area, filled with the most people per square foot. As it turns out, the others had either died in the line of duty or tired of living a life of work and quit to dance the night away with the rest of their civilization. But Alfred loves his job. He loves to rip apart the beasts and splatter himself in their toxic blood, avoid the slash of claw and tooth, poisonous liquids flying into the air with saliva. He loves to lop their heads off and take smaller teeth as prizes, adding them to the hemp around his neck with many to show for his heroic deeds and his amazing skill at what he does. He is a mindless murderer of the mindless murderers, a vigilante of the morning to protect the mindless people of society.

As he steps out from the balcony and shuts the din of nightlife away with the slam of the door, he spots a small gift left for him by an admirer, no doubt. He picks it up and looks at it with a smile, removes the string and rips the paper off without thought. There is a tiny box, which encloses a lovely snow globe filled with a wintry forest, and a horse-drawn carriage with a happy, caroling family in the red sleigh. He shakes it to find that glitter and white flecks like snow swirl about to complete the scene, lighting up his face with a smile he doesn't really mean. It conveys his confusion. No one has ever sent him such an ornamental, fragile gift—it is mostly alcohol and stuffed animals: the alcohol he drinks in order to sleep, and the stuffed animals he throws away—in all his years as the hero of his city.

He checks the tag. "From an anonymous fan? Hum," he thinks aloud, looking at the snow globe again. Alfred walks towards his wide kitchen's trash can, opens it to grind up the useless thing like all the other stuffed things he had been given, but his fingers trap tightly around it. He growls and grits his teeth before removing his foot from the grinding button, storms off towards his bedroom, opens the door and slams it hard (knowing it will not break, as it's made of metal), and places the fragile thing carefully atop the nightstand and settles into the red velvet, plush bed, made for dreamless sleeping.

Alfred falls asleep staring at the snowy, glittering forest within the glass orb. He dreams nothing but darkness, nothing but the blank recesses of his mind, shows no understand and no reflection of himself, but of the hollowness he will never grasp on his own, continuing on the way he is now. His mind has nothing but emptiness and lies and more emptiness, no memories to live by and no tragedy to think back at in order to know he's happier now. Alfred is a vacant man.

The oblivion of sleep fades with the loud buzz of his alarm clock. Alfred yawns, presses the large button in the center and sits up in his bed, the lights overhead turning on immediately. "Good morning." Early in the morning. He does not bother to know the time, just as everyone else does not stop to check it. Others are sleeping as he wakes to the morning dew on the nonexistent grass of his urban jungle.

He showers in three minutes, dresses himself in the thick padded leather jumpsuit, straps the sheathed and sharpened blade to his waist along with the hunting knife, while his gun is strapped to his back. In an instant, he heads out the door and into the elevator, down the long tower's belly and into the main lobby. Outside, the sun has just risen. Alfred presses through the door and watches the skyline, hopeful that something, _anything_ will happen today. Lately his job has been dry. The new walls they installed two years back do not allow most beasts into the city.

Despite the fact that it is wrong to endanger the citizens of his city, he wishes for it nonetheless. Without the beasts he feels inadequate.

His motorcycle awaited him in the attached garage. With a press of his finger to the scanning pad, it roared to life. Before turning it about to ride off, Alfred pulls his leather gloves back on. The buzz of his lifeless but lively companion brings a feral grin to his face. In an instant he speeds from the garage and towards the massive city walls, rushes for them and turns sharply with a squeal of the tires so that he follows along its edges, circles the city many times over for hours upon end, until the sun begins its trek down from the sky so that the moon may have its turn to display its beauty. Alfred would say that the moon is far more beautiful than the sun that people rarely see, but the citizens decree that the lights their lanterns emit are the most beautiful of them all.

Alfred stops to look up at the wall as the sun sets behind it. A low glow makes it seem cold and oppressive. He shivers and looks away. What a silly thought, he decided! To think that something so helpful would be such a burden! 'But what about the Survivors? Those that separated?' Alfred pushes the dangerous thought from his mind, shakes his head as if this will help to clear it out. As he begins to bring his motorcycle back to life, a deep growl overhead draws his attention. His head snaps up immediately.

Above the wall looms a shadowy figure armed from head to toe in sharp claws, spines and rusted teeth. A living, breathing weapon. Within its curling, grasping, snake-like tail it holds a limp and likely poisoned body. It causes the road to shake and shatter beneath it as it lands on the black road to match its slightly darker pelt.

"Shit."

Instantly the two jump into action. The beast was faster than it looked, hopping about and avoiding the quick shots Alfred dealt as he followed on his beloved motorcycle. Faster than he had been used to, at least. Alfred sped up to meet with the demands, shot a few rounds that managed to pierce through the dark matted fur that functioned like wispy scales; even perhaps through the thick skin of the beast that invaded his city with the limp thing in its snake-like tail, as it yelped and bucked, halting for a moment before it leapt over towards a nearby building.

The finger he held on his trigger was faster. A shower of bullets assaulted the beast and forced it away, forced the thing to careen off to the side and make a sharp turn—something Alfred mimicked in order to keep up. All the while, Alfred muttered to himself about the difficult case. He _had_ asked for something, but he definitely did not want _this_!

It was perhaps a few minutes later that he had it cornered, pressed up near one of the walls. As if it knew its fate, the beast gave the Slayer a daring look before tossing the limp thing into its mouth and swallowing whole. Alfred shot the beast to death not even a second later.

And so, with his hunting knife, he quickly sheared away the fur and dug through the skin, into the esophagus and past the rushing blood, reaching into the hot tube he had just cut to find the thing it had swallowed. As he grabbed onto what felt like fabric, he thought, 'Lucky thing. Very close to the stomach. He'll thank me later.' With a grunt, a roar and a massive amount of strength, he managed to overcome the constricting throat and pull the limp person from their fate, sliding them through blood and into a pool of no-doubt poisonous blood, dragging him as far away from it as possible. The people would come to dispose of the carcass with a bonfire that night.

Alfred sighed and looked down at the blood-covered, slimy, limp human in his hands. He would not be attending any party in his honor tonight.

In the end, Alfred was forced to leave his motorcycle there for the others to wheel back for him. There was no way for him to hold the near-lifeless person onto the bike on his way back to his apartment. So he made a mad dash for his home, took the quickest elevator he could remember in his slight panic, 'Calm down, this'll be alright, Elevator Five, that one takes three seconds, that oughta help ya out right now, just keep focusing on your floor, 'Penthouse', remember that, 'Penthouse', not too difficult, just keep thinkin', it,' he repeated this in his head many times, and even began to mutter it under his breath. The person he held in his hands had stopped breathing the instant he kicked open his door.

He put the soon-to-be-corpse on the tiled floor of his kitchen, pulled the anti-venom from a drawer, found an arm, a vein, put the serum in the syringe and shot the life-saving clearness into the saved stranger's blood system. Said stranger gasped in a needy tone, sat up straight so suddenly after given the life-saving clearness that even Alfred was startled (though he would not admit to calling out in surprise like he did). Just as quickly as they had done so, they fell back to the floor and closed their wide-open eyes that Alfred never caught a glimpse of, breathing having returned to normal, relaxed and sleeping off a fearful event and the poisons of the outside world Alfred had counteracted.

Alfred looks the nameless man from head to toe, sighs. "Oh, great," he growls, "now I've gotta take care of him. Stupid government seems to think I have time for myself I'm willing to give up." Because really, how often did he get to live the way he wanted to? Twenty-four hours, seven days a week. That wasn't a selfish thing to say at _all_, considering how he spent eight to nine of those hours sleeping!

The clothes the strange man wore were difficult to get off and did not look like anything Alfred had ever seen. With disgust he tosses them into the washing machine so that the blood and other grimes might be washed from the tattered fabric. A leather bag filled with this person's belongings is also found, but he set that aside in the laundry room as well, so that it might dry and he might not be tempted to look through someone else's things.

When he does all these, Alfred carries the nude and dirtied man into his bathtub to scrub him clean. Not even then did the stranger wake. Smelling clean and looking fresh, Alfred dresses the nameless man in some spare clothes, dries his hair slightly, and places him in his bed, intending to sleep on the sofa nearby, so that he could watch the man carefully, in case he tried anything to be worried about—like escaping without a proper thank-you for his savior.

The Slayer looks the man from head to toe. Blond hair, fair, smooth skin…he wish he knew what color the man's eyes were. Alfred laughed slightly at the comical size of the stranger's eyebrows. He would be able to tell the man apart from anyone by just that in his city—everyone had fair, plucked eyebrows.

To think that he looked so radically different from the others in his city made him think again. Surely he was not from his city? Perhaps he was from a nearby city? Nonsense. The closest city to his is many thousands of miles away. Or so they have been told.

And Alfred begins to wonder just what's outside those walls. He had seen it once, only once, as a child—such a long time ago that the only thing he can remember are the chilling memories of loud cawing, rustling, a swaying sea of green and brown, people running about in a time period long gone from the one they lived in now.

He shakes these thoughts from his head and snaps back to reality. To think such things would be bad for him. Alfred is oh-so close to the light in his position, and to prefer the natural light of morning to anything but the lights that are turned on with the flip of a switch at night is to commit suicide. Or so his father has told him, as he has told himself, as his mother told him between slaps to the face for dreaming of open sky and flying high, when damn it, her son would do something _productive_—

Alfred shivers and stands quickly from the spot he had taken at the edge of the sofa. He runs to the bathroom, turns the knob so that cold water cascades from the metal faucet, and splashes it on his face as a wake-up call. It works only slightly, and he finds this more frustrating than he can remember most things being. So he puts his mind on doing something for himself and for his newly-acquired burden. He stems the flow of water from the faucet, wandering into the kitchen afterwards. The clink of glass against glass and the clatter of porcelain plates removed from their neat little stacks and rows in the cupboards reminds him that he hasn't eaten today either. Within an instant he has filled the cups with water and two plates brandish simple sandwiches to fill the belly with. Alfred returns to his room to find the stranger still sleeping peacefully, and is _not quite_ happy to enjoy his meal alone, in utmost silence, like every day of his life. While his belly is full, he feels empty, not at all filled.

His city wakes while the sun goes to sleep. In his bed, it seems, the stranger begins to stir. Alfred's heart flutters with excitement—while he had smiled for just a moment, he frowned just after, startled at his reaction to such an event. No one should get excited about another person! None of his married friends even bothered to speak to one another. Hell, they didn't even share _beds_. They lived under the same roof, too selfish to think of anyone but themselves. The last time his heart thrummed wildly like it was now was when he had fought off the beast that held the stranger now waking in his bed.

Said stranger's eyes fly open. Bright, brilliant emerald green, like the green sea behind the towering walls around the city, with a clarity Alfred was not aware of. Most people have a filmy layer over their eyes, making them unclear and lifeless, like a doll or someone slowly going blind, unclear cataracts like sins of carnal desires taking form in the eyes. Those green eyes look about, small pupils, fearful of his surroundings. Immediately he shakes and clutches the covers tighter, before he realizes that the covers are not his own. It is through feel at first; his fingers smooth around the red velvet, a peculiar feeling which causes his gaze to meet the thick blankets. He tosses them to the side and lets out a tiny squeak of mortal terror, crawling away from the covers, ready to hop from the bed.

Alfred decides to end the stranger's panic. He chuckles and immediately speaks up, "Calm down there, calm down! You're fine."

The stranger turns to stare with a frightened expression at Alfred, letting out a scream of fear and hopping back immediately, landing on the edge of the bed. The silken sheets beneath him cause him to slip and slide from the bed, landing with a thud on the hardwood floor.

Alfred stands and picks up the flailing stranger; tossing him back onto the bed and pulling the covers back up. The stranger makes this difficult: he must hold him down as he pulls the covers back up, maintaining a smile all the while. "Calm down! Jesus, is this any way to thank your savior?"

This was apparently not the right thing to say, as those brilliant green eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. Alfred flinched away immediately as the stranger moved his hand to shove him back, snarling all the while. With a sharp, darkened voice lilted with a slight accent, the stranger spoke, "Like _hell_ I'll thank you! Tell me where I am and I'll consider forgiving you for…whatever the hell I was doing before this. Bollocks, I can't seem to remember…"

"You were attacked by a beast. You're in my city," Alfred grins at him. "Must've hit your head pretty hard not to remember that."

Those eyes went wide once again. "C-City? Like…oh God, no!" Alfred must push him back down onto the bed again, holds him there with one hand. "Fuck! Let me go, you bloody fool! I must get out of here! Urgh – !"

"Um, no. You really shouldn't be moving around—you were poisoned, you know. It's not good to move around after that." Alfred keeps a straight face.

The stranger glares. "Liar! If you gave me the anti-venom—which I assume you did, as I am alive—then it's good to move around! It moves the anti-venom through the blood and clears the venom!"

So much for that. "Look. Just—just calm down and stay there! Freaking out about whatever the hell you're freaking out about won't help you much right now!" This seems to bring a calm understanding upon the irrational man. He lays back down, reclined against many velvet pillows, arms crossed over his chest.

"Fine." In his voice is the same stubborn tone.

Alfred wanders over towards his dresser and fetches the cup and plate, hands the cup to the green-eyed stranger. "Thirsty?"

A hesitant look is cast his way. Just a few seconds later, he greedily grabs the cup and swallows down liquid life and death, wetting his parched throat, drinking like he hasn't had a thing to drink in many days.

"I guess you're hungry, too." He says this as he hands the sandwich to the stranger and half of it is eaten with the blink of an eye. Alfred chuckles when the sandwich is put down hesitantly, picked apart a little slower than before, as if the stranger was suddenly aware of another person's presence. When everything is gone and he has stopped catering to his mostly-thirsty guest's needs, Alfred sits on the edge of the bed, feels his forehead with the back of his hand. The stranger swats it away immediately.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Alfred blinks. "Checking to make sure you're not sick. What?"

"…Don't touch me." He receives a reprimanding glare.

"Sorry," Alfred doesn't mean it when he apologizes, and the stranger seems to know. That piercing green gaze bores into his head – makes him squirm uncomfortably, forces him to look away. "So. What's your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland," the stranger replies tersely, glaring at him in a knowing, unnerving way. "Yours?"

"Alfred F. Jones," when Alfred says his own name, he grins. "I'm the last Slayer of this city, you know." Arthur chuckles with cold amusement that makes Alfred's blood boil. Instantly, he snaps, "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Arthur replies, turns to look directly into Alfred's cloudy blue eyes, "other than that you have the name of an idiot."

He bristles. "And your name makes you sound stuck-up!"

"Better to think freely than in a haze, if I say so myself. You people from the city…you're all foolish." Arthur does not move, but turns his head to look away, releasing Alfred from his pointed stare. "Do you ever stop to think about what you say?"

"Of course I do!" But he frowns and looks down at his feet. He hadn't thought that out before he'd answered. "…No." He revises his statement sulkily. "Why, though? Why does it matter?"

Arthur looks at him like a child, makes Alfred feel foolish and stupid, like he has done something wrong and should be punished for it. "Why is it a happy statement to say you are the last of your kind? You are alone—the last Slayer. How sad for you." He does not sound sympathetic in the slightest.

It is after this very conversation, when Alfred has gone to bed on the sofa and Arthur sleeps on his bed, that Alfred begins to think, peeling away the filmy cover on his oppressed eyes, dreams of green noise and childhood. His empty head at night is filled with dreams. Dreams, which he has not had in so many long, empty, lonely years.

His life of blissful ignorance ended the very day he met Arthur Kirkland.


	2. Chapter Two

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Two-

**A/N:** I'm happy to see that some people are interested in this! We'll start getting a little deeper into the plot now—hopefully I'll get a little more length on this for you guys. Enjoy!

For those of you wondering about Arthur's behavior in the beginning of this…it's due to the fact that people outside of the city will pose like such when they don't feel like sitting. Thus, crouching. I didn't want to confuse anyone, so this was really a just-in-case-I-did-so-on-accident note.

Also, the song Arthur is singing is from a poem I wrote a long time ago…I loved the titled and decided to use it for my story. Originally, the title was going to be Our Journey. I change things a lot, as you can tell.

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"I'll be going to a party for a few hours," Alfred says, while fastening his tie. It has been no more than a day since he has encountered Arthur, who now crouches, on the tips of his toes, hunched over on the edge of the living room's sofa, staring up at the large flat-screen television, which has its volume turned down to a tone the man can tolerate (his ears are sensitive, supposedly, to anything above 14).

"Parties," Arthur shakes his head, looking about the room. He hops from the sofa and onto the coffee table, landing with only a faint thud, crouched over once again like a cat or feral beast. "I don't see why you'd spend your night in such a way."

"Hey! Get off the damn table!" Alfred swats at Arthur until the man growls and hops back onto the sofa, crouching over himself in the very same manner he had before he'd jumped the gap. The Slayers receives a green glare from the man, but he scoffs, brushing a hand through his hair to sweep it back and behind his ears. "How I spend my nights is none of your business."

His guest jumps from the table, onto the floor, straightens up, and tugs at the collar of Alfred's clean-cut suit. "What is this you're wearing? Don't most people wear casual clothes to parties?"

"It's not a party like you'd see out on the streets." Alfred pushes Arthur away, until he has forced the slightly shorter male onto the sofa, getting him to at least sit properly on it. "This one's for people who have money."

"Oh, so it's an uptight party."

"Arthur!" Alfred snaps. "Seriously! Why are you asking me all these questions?!"

"Why don't you ask _yourself_ these kinds of questions?" Arthur's tone is questioning, serious. He has turned the questions towards Alfred as he has always managed to do.

Alfred turns on his heel, grits his teeth in anger. Behind him, Arthur continues to stare right through him, into his empty soul, empty mind and empty heart. But Arthur seems to see something, as his gaze does not falter. He sees little planted seeds from his words last night, the seeds he planted with his prodding. A smirk appears on the guest's face. "You know, I don't need your stress right now. What I need is for you to cooperate."

"Fine. What do you need from me, Alfred?"

"I need you to lock the door after me. Only answer it if it's me at the door—you'll know because of the Voice Recognition button to the left of the door. Don't leave the apartment, and don't jump off of the balcony if you go out there, alright?"

Arthur glares at him. "I'm not stupid!"

Alfred's grin is malicious. "Sure."

"J-Just…just go!"

And Alfred does so. He slams the door, but does not walk down the hall until he hears a distinct click of the lock, smiles to himself for no reason at all, and strolls to Elevator Five, enjoys the short ride down the main lobby, and walks the long distance to the host's home. The streets are crowded, but the people of his city clear the way for such a man, the man that killed the beast yesterday and gave them wonderful reason to have a bonfire. Bonfires in this city are colorful, as they add chemicals to convince crowds to watch the beast burn, braving the putrid smell of a dying creature filled with toxins in order to stare dumbly at the pretty colors consuming blackened flesh.

Alfred himself had never been to a bonfire. He never had the time to watch his own handiwork being completed, as he was either sleeping or making his way to one such event as this. The owner of the mansion was an old friend, if you could call your friends that. Friend had become a word used to mean, "I speak with that person and force laughter at their bad jokes, simply because I need someone to make me look less lonely, and better my social status through them." It was pathetic, not that society really cared. If it didn't have their name on it, they would not bother with it.

It took nearly half an hour to reach the home of his so-called friend. When he has reached the top of the stairs, Alfred rings the doorbell. A rotund man in a similar suit answers, shakes his hand and forces a grin similar to Alfred's own, and gestures the slayer within. He is friends with Alfred, no doubt, because he is the savior of their city.

Most often Alfred spends his time surrounded by others. There is similar, forced, unhappy laughter throughout the crowds, grating on Alfred's nerves until he drinks down enough to relieve the heaviness pressing down on his skull to crush it open. Then he is truly able to laugh, if only because the alcohol makes things a little funnier. Anyone observing him would not see a difference between him sober and tipsy. He could be thankful for that – it would be a scandal, for the Slayer to get drunk when he has work to do in the morning!

Honestly, he feels as if he's the only one working.

In truth, he really is.

So Alfred tortures himself for a few hours, allows pretty women—whether single or not—to flirt with him and hang on his arm, and for men to tell jokes and be obligated to laugh along with them even if they make him cringe, and lets more women lead him to dance among others, switching partners so quickly his head spins, and to eat terrible food and give his compliments to the chef despite his distaste towards what he had swallowed previously.

People still crowd the lit-up streets as he walks home. They part for him, as usual. Nothing special. But what he does notice is the fact that his glowing face is not grinning down at him from one of the giant building-sized televisions. His image is replaced by a report on the television, and he reads the subtitles due to his inability to hear it over the reckless partying around him. They will not stop, even if he has paused to stare up at the news in abject horror.

"…_A man is said to have somehow entered the city, whether through the beast's workings or his own…the man has been reported as having blond hair, green eyes…he is suspect to the recent string of murders in the city…officials stated that his reasoning may be the fact that Survivors are known for their aggressive behavior towards those that chose to live in the cities…if you know anything, please call…"_

Alfred rushes home, bangs on the door, and when Arthur has opened it, he grabs his guest by the throat after kicking the door shut, rushes him against the wall, showing his gritted teeth in a display of true anger. Beneath his hand, Arthur's adam's apple jumps, his pulse thrums away, and the distinct sound of a man struggling for air comes to his ears. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! Just who the hell are you?!" He hisses, glares directly into those clear green eyes.

"It's—it's kind of difficult to," Arthur gasps, "to answer when you're ch-choking me!"

His hand slackens. Reluctantly, Alfred lets go of Arthur, who rubs at his neck and glares at him. "Are you going to answer me or not?! What the hell is going on?!"

"I've no clue what you're talking about."

He grabs Arthur's wrist and tugs him over to the television, flips through the channels until he reaches the station that plays the news. It continues to blare the information on this recent allegation, continues its loud, urgent tones to grab the attention of onlookers, who will pay it no mind anyhow. "_This._"

Arthur's mouth seems to have gone dry. His lips move over soundless words, as if someone has pressed the mute button on his vocal chords. Eventually he forces this out, "I-I haven't done a thing! What motivation do I have to commit such crimes?!" He stands and paces about like a caged animal. "I believe I may be sick…"

"Not on my floor, you won't," Alfred grabs Arthur's wrist and tugs him towards the balcony with the intent of giving him some fresh air. Once they stand outside and the din of nightlife is below them, floating up and into their ears, Alfred shuts the double-doors and turns to face Arthur, who leans over the iron railing to gaze at the congested streets and flashing lights. The building-sized television has gone back to showing advertisements, occasionally flashing Alfred's grinning face. "Tell me the truth." His tone is sharp. Behind his back, he holds a knife.

"What reasoning do I have to lie to you, Alfred?" Arthur turns—a miserable face, sick and tired and worn—to look at Alfred with pity. "I am not one of your kind. As much as you hate me, I do not lie – I _would not ever_ lie, no matter whom it is I speak to. My kind is upfront and honest. We speak only the truth. We are true to our nature and true to ourselves. You have the choice of believing me and letting me live, or not trusting me and killing me here, right now. But what would the second option do for you? It would hollow you out further…or perhaps break you? Maybe you would jump from the balcony afterward. God knows I wouldn't blame you."

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Alfred glares, pulls the knife from behind his back. Slowly, he advances upon his guest. Arthur does not move, does not show any fear at all. "Y-You…you make no sense at all!"

"Because you don't know anything at all. Tell me. Do I make you think?" Arthur's mocking tone does not change his miserable expression. "Do I make you wonder about yourself? My words make no sense because this society has stripped meaning from you. Poor soul. Poor thing! I feel bad for you." His words have weight. They conjure up emotion and suffocate Alfred.

"Sto-st-stop…_stop!_" Alfred wheezes, shuts his eyes tight. With his hands, he covers his ears in desperation. "Shut up! I don't want to hear it! Shut up, please! _Please!_" Through the darkness he pulled up to shield himself, he feels calloused hands close around his shoulders. When he opens his eyes, Arthur stands in front of him. Miserable. But he tries nonetheless.

"Calm down, Alfred," his tone is gentle and soothing, like what he wishes his mother had sounded like instead of her harsh, cold voice and icy hands. Arthur's are warm and hold a form of affection in them. They melt the ice around his hollow heart and taps him deep, makes him shiver in a good way. Everything he feels is new, inviting. And he loves it all, savors it and remembers it and refuses to push the good feelings away. The knife clatters to the tiled floor beneath them. Suddenly he feels a weight leave his shoulders. "Why are you so upset? There's nothing here to get you so worked up."

Alfred shakes and leans forward, resting his forehead against Arthur's slim shoulder. The warmth there spreads slowly through his skin. Cold leaves his body, hot fills the void. "_I don't know myself anymore._" He slides to his knees and shakes like a lost child in an empty world. Arthur follows, still holds his shoulders.

"We can find you, though. Do you want my help? I can help you somehow. This…this shouldn't be forced on you. You have the right to think like a normal human being. Alfred," his tone is still so warm and still so loving. "Alfred, Dear God, _how _did you_ live_ this way for so long_?!_"

"I don't know." Alfred looks up at Arthur and frowns. "Why are you so upset?"

The smile he receives might as well be a frown. "This is not where I belong. I hate it here. This is…this is not my home." Arthur swallows with difficulty. "These people all make me sick. I just want to go home. But…that can't be helped right now. Come, Alfred. Let me teach you. You'll allow me this, at the very least, so that I may endure this torture with someone intelligent?"

He grabs Arthur's hand and allows himself to be lead inside, closing out the din of nightlife behind the double-doors. They sit down on the sofa in the living room; turn off the television, and turn to face one another. Arthur's legs are folded underneath himself, the backs of his thighs touching the backs of his calves. Alfred sits with his legs stretched out in front of himself. "What can you teach me, anyways?" Alfred's tone has taken on a hint of suspicion.

"At the very least, I can teach you of the world you have forgotten, and the people you think are enemies." Arthur smiles sorrowfully in response to his own words. "I will teach you of the Survivors and the world beyond the walls around your sheltered society of ignorance."

While the night was certainly long, it passed by quickly for Alfred. He did his best to soak in everything Arthur told him, tried to wrap his mind around it. At some point Arthur mentioned trees; tall, green and brown things that grew as the years passed, living on water and carbon dioxide, rooted to the ground. Apparently they were very sturdy. "But what are they there _for_?" Alfred asked.

"They make the air we breathe, and they shade us from the summer heat." Arthur replied, and continued on despite the confusion evident from Alfred's expression after his quite thorough—yet short—explanation of trees.

He then went on to explain the seasons. Alfred knew the difference between summer and winter—one was hot, and the other was cold. The government in the city would melt the snow and bring out giant heaters to keep the citizens warm during their nocturnal activities. Apparently there were more than just those two!

"In the fall, the leaves from the trees turn red, gold, brown…many colors. They fall off and collect on the ground. Children from villages will leave in the afternoon after dinner to play in them before they go to bed. When I was little, I would always collect them in giant piles and jump into them from the branches of trees. My mother had to pick the crumbled leaves from my hair when I returned," he chuckled at the memory, his expression falling even further after the small bit of happiness had been used.

"What about the others? What's it like out there during the others?"

"Calm down, calm down! I'll get to them in time," Arthur paused before continuing, "Winter is very cold. Most people don't venture out any more than they have to. But it's always very beautiful and silent. A comfortable, full silence. Everything's so white a pure. Most people don't enjoy winter because everything is either dead or hibernating. I've enjoyed it for quite some time, myself. My village hosts horse-drawn sleigh rides. They're perfect for couples, but I always end up going alone. It's not as enjoyable without someone else by your side to view the scenery.

"As for spring, it's my favorite. Right after winter, the snow melts and the world just seems to spring to life! It's all so beautiful. I love it. All the colors of the flowers just seem to pop. And the sounds! Oh, the sounds are splendid! The birds sing all day and the crickets chirp all night…lovely." Arthur sighs and shuts his eyes. "Reminds me of a song my mother used to sing…'_Do you hear the cadence of the spring? Can you feel the forest sing? Is the sun up in the sky? Shining there for all to spy? Can you smell the flowers strive? Everything is so alive! Cadence of the spring. Shelter from winter's sting. Cadence of the spring. Men and women sing to the cadence of the spring!'_" He smiled slightly in embarrassment after he had finished the small song.

Alfred smiled at him. "You guys sing songs like that? What do you use for background music?" He seemed amazed that anyone would sing such a tune.

"Drums, wooden flutes, guitars, things of that sort…other people will sing as well," Arthur narrowed his eyes. "We don't need computerized sound, or whatever nonsense you all use in the cities, in order to make good music. Everyone's voice is beautiful and accepted as such. There's no such law as singing songs only if your voice is record-worthy!"

"We don't have a law like that!" Alfred laughed with amusement. "See? You don't know our lifestyle, either!"

"Like I need to," Arthur growled in response.

Arthur then went on to tell Alfred what it was like to live outside the city. He told him about his village, how open their lifestyles were, how everyone was generally accepted with open arms, no matter their shape, size, age, color, or background. "Everyone has something to contribute to society. We spend our time with others and have fun while we work."

"And do you guys sleep at night?" Alfred's eyes became wide with his inquisition. This seemed very important to him.

"Yes. We all sleep at night. We thrive under the sun and tire under the moon. When the sun rises, so do we." Arthur watched his facial expression carefully. Alfred looked puzzled.

"Seriously? I thought that was just a rumor…"

"Of course we do! That's how people lived hundreds of years ago! It is how human beings are _supposed_ to live." Arthur huffed. "It's how you live…sort of."

"Only I bet you guys do more humane things, like gathering."

"Sort of," Arthur did not seem happy as he continued; "only we do hunt the beasts. While you Slayers do it to save your city and make a bonfire out of it, we do it so that we don't deplete the natural resources. Natural game is hard to come by, with the voracious appetites of the beasts that roam around."

"Wait, wait, wait," Alfred held a hand up, eyes widened once again, "you mean, you guys hunt these things and _eat them_?! They're poisonous, though!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, we do. Yes, every part of a beast is poisonous. However, you can cook the poison out of them…they just end up burnt to a crisp." He grimaced as if the flavor was imprinted on his taste buds permanently. "After a while you forget how terrible it tastes and take what you can get. Truly, the flavor is forgotten when you're thankful for a plentiful meal like a beast can provide."

"Hm. How's the food here compare, though?"

Arthur laughed quietly. "Twice as good, sometimes twice as bad. I'll give your people that—they can make decent food, from what I've tasted during my stay here." And the reminder of his entrapment within the city brings his spirits down to an all-time low. Alfred felt pity swirl in his heart, which he noted he would rather not feel again, if he could avoid it.

"You've barely even stayed here for long!"

"And already, it feels like hell," Arthur croaked, effectively silencing their conversation. "S-Sorry. God, do I hate it here, though. It's all so cold. How do you stand it?"

"I hadn't realized it was cold until you came along," and as if to demonstrate, he had his arms wrapped around himself. Arthur smiled apologetically. "Are you going to explain your people to me, or not?"

"Oh! Of course! I was just getting to that!" Arthur seemed to perk up, which tugged a corner of Alfred's lips up into a smirk. He had been happy to see that he could make the older man forget his woes, if just for a small parcel of time. "Survivors are _not_ barbarians, unlike what the foolish people tell you that take care of the media here. We are people who did not want to let ourselves be taken over by the massive advancements in technology. We decided to live peacefully, happily, like regular people. Our decision came with the beasts' uprising. What dark times…dark times indeed. Tell me: what do you know of the beasts? What were you told about them? How are they supposedly made?"

Alfred took his time to think about this. "We were told that the beasts were created from the hatred of Survivors. They took form as viruses and latched onto the animals, took over their bodies and mutated them."

"Partially correct. It is through the fault of the _city_, however, that the beasts plague the both of us. When we broke away from the city, the government was not happy. They needed an inventive way to take care of us without sending their men out and thus startling your happy, ignorant city-going party-freaks. So they decided to create a virus that would spread through the living creatures, into the forests, and onto us in order to kill us off. Their experiments, once injected, were released outside the walls. These animals spread it to one another – what the government didn't anticipate was the mutation of these animals. They became so different from what they once were that it was no longer a disease, but a part of their genetics. Because of this, it would not spread to my people, thankfully.

"However, these beasts became a burden on both our societies, as you can see. It seems to make a lifestyle for you, though." Arthur laughed quietly.

"I seem to be the only one in town who does a thing about it. I don't even think the people realize what a threat they can be." Alfred sighed. "Damn it, this is all so unbelievable! I can't see this…how can you? How is it that things have gotten so out of hand?"

"It is when we lose track of the things that are important, when we lose faith in ourselves and trust so easily in people we barely know, becoming shallow and ignorant, that things become the way they are now. Alfred…I hope you have learned something from this all. You will allow me to continue teaching you, correct?" Arthur eyed him hopefully. He could not say no.

"I…guess. I don't know what to think of this all. It's just so much…"

"And I understand that," Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder in an awkward pat of reassurance. "Take your time, Alfred. God knows you'll need it at this point. God knows I have all the time in the world for you to take your time with a decision…so I just beg you to make the right now." Arthur looked outside. Dawn would rise in just three hours—Alfred would never understand how he could tell that just by looking at the horizon. "I believe it is time you went to bed. We've been up almost all night. Come on, now." Arthur helped Alfred to his feet (which, he did not put an honest effort forth on his behalf) and walked back to his host's bedroom with him, escorted into the bed with numerous complaints on his lips, muttered quietly with an angry lilt, while Alfred took the sofa in the room once again.

On his sofa, in his room, Alfred begins to dream of people playing drums and guitars, singing cheerful tunes in the swaying, wild greens and earthen tones of the world outside his own. Held within the walls are empty people, cold men and women, Arthur, and himself. He feels nothing but the fading warmth that his guest supplies to him with the rebirth of knowledge in his mind. It makes his spirit sing, soaring in the sky with the birds like he had dreamed of long ago—it is only children who can dream, as dreams are childish things in the world he grew up in. Outside, however, dreams are as free as people.

On his sofa, in his room, Alfred begins to hope that he may see such a world in his lifetime. The sun comes up and through the windows before he can dwell on his longings. This sun would awaken and sleep many times. It is in the blink of an eye that Alfred realizes it has been half a year—half a year of learning, half a year of listening to sweet quotes of Shakespeare and Socrates and Nabokov, half a year of poetry and literature, of music and beauty and filling that void with the lessons in the sweet, sometimes harsh, accent-heavy voice of Arthur Kirkland, half a year of living in worry for that man, who always seems so sad, so dead and lifeless and not even bothering to cover up his anguish at being trapped, so unlike the others…half a year of triumph and torture and awakening his sleeping mind.

"It was never dead," Arthur whispers one night upon Alfred's asking of how his awareness is coming along, if Arthur had given him new meaning like he had meant to do all along. "It was just sleeping. Hiding from you, really. It had no reason to be used up until now. But look at you now! It is sufficed to say that you are, indeed, an intelligent individual—to an extent." And Arthur had laughed. A hollow laugh that had no meaning, like Alfred had laughed so long ago, like everyone else…only far more miserable than he could remember. A constant awareness that he was miserable. Alfred worries and frets over Arthur in the many long months that Alfred believes he just fades in and out of. Nothing really happens. Nothing but Arthur's lyrical voice lulling him to sleep on the sofa, where he dreams so soundly until the sun wakes him up with its own glorious start. It is upon the third winter, deep in the throng of the biting cold northerners experience, that the events that change both their lives indefinitely, take place.

Alfred F. Jones would remember the day as the start of the warmth throughout his body, and the birth of his irrational fear of blizzards.


	3. Chapter Three

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Three-

**A/N:** I'm sorry that this came out so late, guys. I've been very busy recently, but Winter Break is here, so I can finally get back to work on CotS. There'll be some conflict arising in the next chapter, mhm. Hope you guys like it!

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Alfred adjusts his tie carefully. From the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur, who rests atop his living room's sofa, sitting with one leg crossed over the other. His guest of three years, he has known Arthur long enough to identify the odd darkness in his eyes. "Arthur, don't worry. It's just a simple meeting." He tries to calm the other.

Arthur tosses his head back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes are still as sharp as ever. "No. _You_ don't worry. This meeting is a deciding factor on whether or not I'll be alive anymore. Tell me, what _do_ they do to men like me, accused of murder? What do they do to _you_?"

The Slayer has difficulty swallowing around the lump that has formed in his throat. "Now, that's not fair to either of us," he reasons, tilting his gaze down a little, so that he may avoid the imminent eye contact. Arthur's green gaze darts to meet his own blue one, catching them, holding them.

"It is no more fair than it is realistic. You and I both know that we hold the same fate, and this man is no fool, I'm sure." Arthur stands and begins to pace about. "This is surely not a good thing. This is surely meant to be…surely, something will happen. I am simply afraid for _your_ well-being. Alfred, if I drag you into this, your death is _my_ fault. I could care less if they kill me, but—"

"_Shut up!_" Alfred snaps, glaring. "Nothing will happen. God, Arthur, you keep making me worry! Please stop this! Everything will be alright, okay? Don't worry about it. Neither of us will be killed for treason, harboring a criminal, murder, or any other nonsense like that! So please shut up about it!"

Arthur turns to look out a window at the lit-up streets in the night. Three years of watching a man do this allows you to tell just what he's thinking. _'Disgusting. Unnatural. They're not even __**pretty**__. These poor, dumb people…so ignorant, so happy. Not a true happiness, either.'_

"...What did you say this man's name was, again?" Arthur has turned back around, revulsion still held in his eyes. He is glaring slightly.

"Ivan Braginsky," Alfred replies, sighing, his eyes shut. "His name is Ivan Braginsky, and he's my boss—the Commander of Armed Forces in the city."

"A clever man, you said?"

He nods. "Yes. Something about him is just…really off for people in society today. He gives you the impression that he knows every little thing about you; the last time I spoke with him I went home, made sure my locks were secured tight, and didn't go out onto the balcony for a week."

"Well," Arthur sits down on the sofa again, hanging his head, body limp like a conquered man. "We're fucked."

"Don't say that," Alfred scowls, fixing his suit for the hundredth time that evening. "I'll be back later. See you in a few hours." He walks to the door, opening it before turning around to look at Arthur, as if expecting a response. When nothing is said immediately, he walks through the doorway and closes the heavy metal door behind him, strangely comforted by the clicking noise it makes when locking into place. Arthur is safe inside the apartment, just so long as he does not leave the enclosure.

"Good luck," Arthur whispers after Alfred has gone, drawing his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs tight, as if his life depended on it. "Good luck, and please, don't do anything stupid…Alfred."

Back outside in the noisy streets of society, the people party their lives away freely. Alfred can remember the last party he'd gone to: last month, a benefit gala. No one danced like this, but some certainly acted as drunk and outrageous as the loud people on the corners who would kiss just about anyone that asked. It had been a normal thing for him, but it began to make him feel sick, seeing people do this to themselves. Did they have any clue what kind of damage they were causing? How could they not know how foolish they were being?

His teachings, he decided, made him far too aware of what was going on. When the people danced like that on the streets, with people they barely knew, Alfred wanted to look away. When they would try to drag him into their senseless raving, he wanted to shove them back and scream at them, "What do you think you're doing?! Who made everyone like this?! Why do you ignore everything but _this_?!" He could never speak any of this to another person, for his cover would be blown, and God forbid he endangers Arthur!

"_Nothing can be done for them at the moment," _Arthur had said, _"so I am afraid you will have to leave them be. It's terrible, I know. But you must."_

He wished he could help them, really. As Alfred had found, he grew some form of compassion. Arthur had explained it by stating Alfred had _always_ wanted to help people; just that he was slightly misguided in his previous throes of ignorance. Now, he was helping people—people that Arthur believed didn't really deserve the help they got.

"_If there's an Armed Forces, then why the hell are you necessary? Why don't __**they**__ work?_"

"_They never have to,"_ Alfred explained, _"because they don't want to give up their lifestyles to hunt some 'stupid' beasts. The Slayers became a new profession because the Armed Forces voted them into creation."_

"_Lazy jackasses if I ever heard of any!"_

The Armed Forces only do what they are ordered to do. This is, to say, not much.

Alfred's identity is checked through finger prick and retinal scanning as he enters the large government building. By now, he knows his way around. Down the elevator, get off at B4, down the hallway; turn left at the second branch, third door on the right. The heavy metal door he stands in front of was labeled, "Commander Braginsky, Armed Forces", in thick, easy-to-read font. Clearing his throat, Alfred checks his suit once more, before he presses the scanning pad with his thumb.

"Scanning…please stand by." A moment for the machine to work is filled with clicking-processing sounds. "**Jones, Alfred F.**; meeting with **Mr. Braginsky** at **8:30 P.M**?" The voice of the small machine inquires. Its tone is monotonous and not at all human, though its falsetto pitch is supposed to make it feminine. He suppresses a shiver.

"Yes," Alfred uses a steady tone. The machine makes a few clicking sounds while processing the information. When finished, it makes a noise akin to that of something on a game show. _'Correct!'_

"Confirmed. Current time is – **8:25 P.M.** Please wait for your appointment—**Jones, Alfred F.** **Mr. Braginsky** will be ready for you in just a moment."

He relaxes his shoulders as much as possible. Any time he has ever spoken with Mr. Braginsky, he has been on time. The man, he heard, does not approve of being behind even one minute.

In this moment, he takes the time to calm himself. If he is not calm, he is sure Mr. Braginsky will notice. And if Mr. Braginsky notices, he will pressure him until he cracks, until he tells him everything that he knows, how he's hiding an alleged criminal in his home, and that he knows everything that is wrong with his life is the government's fault.

Arthur would be dead, and Alfred would follow suit. Mr. Braginsky is not kind to those who betray him, from what he's heard.

"**Jones, Alfred F.** Current time is – **8:30 P.M.** **Mr. Braginsky** will see you now." Its voice cuts off with a loud signal and a sound of clicking inside the heavy metal door, which swings open to reveal the familiarly cold office of Alfred's nightmares. He takes a deep breath, inhale, exhale…and tries to relax himself.

"Come in, Mr. Jones," Mr. Braginsky calls from his desk. Alfred does as he is told, shuffling inside, pausing once the door has snapped shut behind him. The tall man smiles coldly and gestures at a seat just in front of his mahogany desk. "Please. Take a seat, if you will!" While the tone is welcoming and inviting, it holds a frozen undertone that makes Alfred shiver. He does his best to avoid showing this shiver, and follows instruction, sitting down and crossing his leg. "Welcome back, Mr. Jones. I suppose you're wondering why I called this meeting."

"I assumed it was to review my performance," Alfred replies.

He receives a smirk in response. "Ah, yes. The typical thought—or should I say hope?—when I summon someone. No, no. I just wanted to have a chat." From the breast pocket of the inside of his coat, Mr. Braginsky pulls a case. He undoes the clasp, unfolding it to reveal several cigarettes; he grabs one, puts it between his lips—not once has he broken eye contact with Alfred—and curls his lips into a smile. "Would you like a cigarette, Alfred? These new brands they keep coming out with can last three hours or more, you know. May I call you that—Alfred?"

"I don't smoke, Mr. Braginsky—" Alfred begins; only to be cut off by the Commander's raised hand.

"Please, call me Ivan. We are speaking as friends, are we not?" The flash of those peculiar violet eyes causes Alfred to press his lips together.

"—Ivan. And of course you can call me Alfred."

The smile widens into a slight grin. "Perfect." Ivan tucks the cigarette case back into his breast pocket, fastens his coat up, and grabs the box of matches off of his desk. He strikes one, lighting it, and puts it to the tip of the cigarette dangling from his lips. Instantly it bursts to life, burning bright, emitting thick and curling smoke. Ivan shakes his hand to put out the match, tosses the remains in the trash, tugging the cigarette from between his lips out for just a moment afterward so that he might puff out the curling smoke. He blows it out in no particular fashion, though Alfred is sure the smoke looks like a slithering snake in the air, wrapping around his body and invading his lungs, embedding its foul scent in his clothes and hair and skin. He imagines that the shower he is going to take when he gets home won't do any good, and wonders if he looks like he might be sick, because he feels his stomach churning like he's going to be very soon. "Now Alfred, how have things been for you these past few years? Enjoying life, I hope?"

"Well, as much as I can," he forces a laugh that would fool normal citizens, but Ivan is a little different. His eyes narrow slightly in response.

"Oh? What kind of answer is that?" Ivan takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"Nothing at all, sir—I mean, Ivan," he laughs, this time nervously. "It's not an answer of any particular kind, I mean."

This answer seems to convince him. Ivan flicks ashes from his cigarette into the glass ashtray on his desk, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I see. How has work been, then?"

"As work normally is—sometimes busy, sometimes so boring my mind just seems to rot."

Ivan laughs quietly at this. "Ah, how strange. My work seems to be the same way, recently."

"And what is it that you've been working on recently?"

"The case three years ago, of the string of murders; they've ceased, I know," Ivan flicks ashes into the ashtray, inhaling on his cigarette once more. He blows the smoke out carefully, allowing it to curl around him as if it were his pet snake curling around his neck. "But I'll take anything the government doesn't feel like dealing with, particularly those that deal with our Survivor friends. I'm getting older, I know, though people tell me I don't look to have aged a day past twenty-four." He chuckles, as if amused by this. "How strange people are, to say this. In any case, I haven't made a single move towards solving this case. The Survivor who did these murders was a very skilled man, indeed. They slit the throat in such a methodical fashion, making sure to leave no traces of DNA, leaving no one who may have saw him alive…such a clever individual."

"Excuse me, did you say…man? How do you know that?" Alfred tries to keep himself from sounding worried. He wills his grip on the arms of his chair to relax.

Ivan gives him a wry smile after watching his struggle with his hands. "Intuition, I suppose."

"Hm. Well, how do you know it's a Survivor?"

"I would have to say intuition, once again. Either that, or I could say that I hope it is this."

"You hope they're a Survivor?"

"Ah, yes. Please, do not ask me why," he pauses. "I have a strange attraction to them. It is something I dislike speaking of."

"I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"No, no—don't apologize, Alfred." Ivan tilts his head to the side, swiveling around to face forward, directing his full gaze at Alfred. "Tell me, do you know anything of this case?"

"I know that the person accused is supposed to have blond hair and green eyes. But…" His eyebrows were knit together in a troubled expression. Too late, he noticed this. Ivan had seen, and Ivan suddenly became alert, a sharp undertone to his voice.

"What's wrong, Alfred? Is something troubling you?" His tone is falsely soothing, not really worried.

'Damn it all to hell,' Alfred thinks, 'he's onto you! Say something to make it seem natural, then.' "It's just…why is it that a Survivor would do that? It doesn't seem right, that a human being would do such a thing. Can't they just be people, too?"

Ivan laughs loudly at this—apparently what Alfred said was amusing. "Ahahaha! Oh, Alfred…that is such a naïve thing to say! The Survivors are not human beings. They are cold and vindictive and hateful. They cannot feel anything at all, except excitement for bloodshed! It is why they kill our kind. Because they hate us, and they get their sick sexual thrills off of such a thing as murdering the innocent! They should not even be considered human! So why is it that we define them as such? A disgusting, curious bunch, they are."

Alfred bit his tongue in order to stop himself from speaking out. He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, dug his nails into the mahogany wood surface, surely leaving marks behind. What Ivan said had inflamed his spirit. Lies, every bit of it! Had he told the same things to other people, too?

"Why so upset, Alfred? Did I say something you didn't quite like?" Ivan eyes him carefully.

So, for possibly the third time, Alfred forced himself to be calm. "N-no, it's just…it's disgusting to think that they're like that." The lie slipped through his lips quite easily. Ivan seemed to accept this, as he nodded gently.

"Well, I apologize," he says, shaking his head. "It was rude of me to make you so uncomfortable."

"Don't worry about it, Ivan." He frowns a bit. "I don't mean to be rude, but…what's the time?"

Ivan checks the digital watch on his wrist. "Ah, it's just around ten o'clock."

"Ten? It's really been an hour and a half? Oh, well – I really should be going…"

"Are you sure, Alfred?" Ivan continues to watch him, flicking more ashes into the ashtray.

"I'm sure. I need to get home and catch some sleep. I'll be waking up in eight hours."

"Very well then. You may leave."

Alfred raises an eyebrow? "I thought this was just a chat?"

Ivan chuckles, dark, dangerous laughter, narrowing his eyes. "Ah, Alfred. You possess a sharp mind. I'm glad to have employed you. Run along now, I wouldn't want you to be tired for work tomorrow." He puts out his cigarette butt straight down in the center of the ashtray, among many other cigarettes.

"Goodbye, then, Ivan."

"Goodbye, Alfred! Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Alfred stands and walks to the door, and while he waits for it to open, says, "I'll try." When it swings open for him, Alfred walks out and down the hallway, back the way he came, smelling of smoke and sweat and panic, fear and worry and guilt.

Behind the closed heavy metal door, Ivan has swiveled around in his chair to face the unadorned fourth wall of his office. He has lit another three-hour cigarette, the smoke curling around his body like an unholy aura. "Sleep well, Alfred. I'll be seeing you very soon."

The Slayer hurries home to the top floor of his apartment building. When he reaches the door, he pushes it open as quickly as he can, calling out, "Arthur? I'm back!" No one answers. Not one noise. Normally, Arthur would say something back.

"_Who else would it be but you?" "Why do you have to say that every damn time you get home, Alfred?!" "Quit breaking my concentration while I sew!"_

It worried him that he hadn't heard anything yet. His heart began to race, while fresh sweat gathered on his palms and forehead. "Arthur? You didn't leave the apartment, did you?" But Alfred knew Arthur wouldn't do that. The Survivor would die if he went out into the city on his own – whether because he would get lost in the noisy crowds or someone would recognize him and turn him in. Alfred closes the door slowly behind him, stepping further into his apartment.

Suddenly, a noise from further within; some form of choking, sobbing sound foreign to Alfred's ears. It is mixed with what he realizes to be loud music, loud people, and loud partying. Instantly, Alfred rushes towards his balcony. "Arthur?"

Outside, on the balcony, Arthur stands on the railing, looking at the crowded streets below, turned away from Alfred. By the sound of it, he had been crying, but had recently stopped, his breathing still ragged. "Damn it, damn it all…" He mutters this continuously, saying nothing more, nothing less.

Alfred is frozen in place, only able to watch and listen as Arthur laments, using three different words every time he opens his mouth to speak. And when Arthur moves one foot forward, Alfred suddenly shakes the fear from his body and jumps into action, rushing forward to grab the desperate man on his balcony railing, shouting the one thing running through his mind, "Arthur, _don't_!" He seals his eyes shut, too scared to watch his effort to save the man. In what seems to take a lifetime, his hand closes around the back of Arthur's shirt—Alfred's shirt—to keep the man from really falling. He tugs, hard, on that fabric, thanking the heavens and as many things he can think of that are worth thanking that he was fast enough, as Arthur's back makes contact with his chest. The two men fall to the tiled floor of Alfred's balcony, both with a pained grunt.

Arthur screams and kicks, attempting to rip away from the steel grip now wrapped under his arms and around his chest, desperate to break free and end his sad existence. "Damn it, Alfred, let me go! Can't you do _anything_ right?!"

"I am doing something right! I'm stopping some idiot from throwing away his life!" Alfred shouts back, struggling to stand with his raucous burden fighting so frantically against him. He manages to get back into the apartment, closing the single opened door on the left behind him, and stumble a little further into the belly of his home.

"You don't know a thing! Let me go, damn it! I _need_ to do this!" Arthur, so desperate to get free, bites Alfred's arm, kicking twice as hard.

"Ow! What the hell, Arthur?! Stop it!" The Slayer stumbles down a hallway. 'Almost there,' he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Then _you_ stop it, bumbling oaf," Arthur speaks around his grip on Alfred's arm.

"Arthur," he speaks sternly, causing the man to pause. Alfred had stopped walking. When Arthur, stunned that he had used such a tone, stopped biting his arm, Alfred took his opportunity to throw the man into the room behind him, heedless of what he might hit upon landing, and slam the door shut, locking it from the outside. As a safety measure, he ran to his kitchen table, grabbed a chair, and propped it up against the doorknob.

From inside the bathroom, Arthur rattled the doorknob desperately, banging on the wooden door. "Alfred! Alfred?! Let me out this instant, you—! You—!"

"Sorry, Arthur," Alfred speaks in a low, sad tone, making sure that Arthur can hear him. His back is pressed against the portion of the door that is not blocked by the chair, head turned so that he can hear anything the Survivor on the other side of the door tries to do or say. "But I can't let you out until you've calmed down. You have to understand something."

"What is it that you could _possibly_ want _me_ to understand?! I taught you everything you know!" Arthur sounds angry, but also desperate.

Alfred hits his fist sharply in the general area of where Arthur's voice comes from against the door, snarling. Behind the door, Arthur yelps and jumps back somewhat. "I can't let another good thing get away from me, Arthur! There's something you could never teach me! You're so damn ungrateful for what you have! So just shut up unless you have something worthwhile to say!"

For about ten minutes, Arthur is silent. He says nothing; just sits at the door and breathes, listening to Alfred breathe, and allowing Alfred to listen to him breathe in return. Then, he begins to speak again. "Alfred, please let me out…you don't understand…I'm miserable, Alfred…I don't belong here…oh, please…I just want to die, so let me die! Don't torture me the way you are now…!" Occasionally he pounds on the door with his fist, whimpering, leaking the sound of his quivering and shaky voice through, obviously on the verge of another breakdown. Alfred uses all of his willpower to ignore these emotional actions, because he knows it's best not to listen to him, and he knows it's better for Arthur to just calm down before he makes any sort of decision concerning the end of his life.

For another ten minutes, Arthur just cries. He switches between sobbing loudly to just sniffling, whispering nonsensical things Alfred can barely catch through the door. "G-God…! J-Ju…nt…t-to…ie! L-let…me…ie!" Of course, Alfred tries his best to ignore this all as well.

'Just ignore him,' he tells himself, 'it'll be better for him if you ignore him, Alfred.' He repeats this over and over again, just as Arthur repeats the same thing over and over again, matching his desperation with his own steady decision.

Forty more minutes pass in utter silence, aside from the breathing both men make. Alfred convinces himself that Arthur decided to give him a break, because the man is usually more stubborn than this. Giving up on convincing him to let him out after twenty minutes at it? That's just not like him! While his stomach growls, and his body tells him to go to sleep for the night and shut the world out behind a curtain of darkness, Alfred refuses to move, too afraid of what might happen if he does so. What if Arthur were to break free somehow while he fed himself? What if he went to sleep and woke up in the morning, only to find himself on the floor, bathroom door flung wide open, and a news report about an unidentified man having launched himself off the balcony? These possibilities scared him to extreme alertness.

So after an hour has passed in total, Arthur calls out in a quiet, inquisitive tone, "…Alfred?" And he knocks gently.

"Yes, Arthur?" Alfred replies after a moment, having thought it over carefully.

"Please…let me out now?" The tone was distressed, but in a different way than before.

"That depends," Alfred pauses. "Are you going to try and off yourself if I open the door?"

"No…I promise. Please, let me out…" His voice gets quieter as he speaks…

"You promise?"

There is a slight pause, in which Alfred holds his breath. "_…I promise._"

"Then hold on a minute." Alfred stands, picking the chair up and placing it back among the others around his kitchen table, grabbing a thick quilt as he passes through the living room and into the hallway, unlocking the bathroom door from the outside and turning the knob. "Stand back, I'm opening the door." He waits a moment, before swinging the wooden door open.

In the bathroom, Arthur has sunk into a lifeless sitting position, like a rag doll, staring at the floor with his head hung, face concealed. "_Alfred,_" he whispers, hands clutching at something unseen and nonexistent. "_Alfred…_"

Alfred clicks his tongue, pity sweeping through him. "Come on, Arthur. Stand up." When the man fails to do so, Alfred sweeps over the tiled floor to him, slipping his fingers under the other man's slim chin, tilting his face up. "Oh, Arthur…why do you have to be this way?" Arthur sniffles slightly. With a sigh that has no trace of exasperation in it, Alfred drops the quilt and rummages around in the linen closet for a wash cloth, wetting it with warm water in the sink. He walks back over to Arthur and washes off his tear-soaked face and neck, frowning as he does so. Arthur makes no objections or movements against it. When he has finished cleaning Arthur's sorrow from his skin, he tosses the wash cloth into the bathroom and pulls the Survivor up gently, picking up the thick quilt and wrapping it around Arthur's shoulders, walking behind him and guiding him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

There, he changes quickly, watching Arthur as he slips into some as-usual-borrowed pajamas, never once letting go of his grip on the quilt, even though Alfred keeps telling him throughout that it's only making it more difficult. Once he has finished, Arthur walks towards Alfred, who sits on the sofa in his bedroom. As he gets rather close, Alfred furrows his brows, giving him a strange look. "Arthur? What are you doing? Is something wrong?"

"_Alfred_," he whispers. "_Sorry_…" And he blinks, very slowly, as Alfred stands and takes a hold of his shoulders.

"Arthur? Seriously, is something wrong?" As Alfred finishes this sentence, Arthur moves forward and presses himself close to the Slayer, nose against the side of his neck.

"_I'm sorry…_"

"Arthur," he says this, because he cannot think of the words to say in order to tell Arthur he understands. Instead, he pulls Arthur into a tight hug, resting his chin on the other man's shoulder, his hand running through Arthur's hair.

Arthur brings his own arms around Alfred's middle, getting as close as he can, and whispers against Alfred's skin his name once again. "_Alfred…_"

"Please don't think I'm stupid for doing this, Arthur," he speaks directly in the shell of Arthur's ear before pulling back, forcing Arthur to look him directly in the eye. Both of their eyes are clear and sharp and beautiful, one like a sunny day's sky in July, the other like the brilliant fields of rolling green or the wild forests of the people no one seems to understand. In understanding, the green disappears behind Arthur's eyelids. Alfred's blue eyes follow suit once he kisses Arthur, directly on the lips, arms still around the slim man's body, while Arthur clutches at the fabric of his night clothes.

They pull back to breathe when they can no longer deny that they are human and need oxygen. Alfred shuffles both himself and the still-clinging Arthur towards the sofa (being much closer than the bed), curling up on the edge there, with Arthur in his lap and the quilt wrapped around the both of their bodies, falling asleep comfortably there, with his precious burden in his arms.


	4. Chapter Four

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Four-

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! I would like to start off by saying this – oh my gosh, you guys are all so sweet! I have the best reviewers in the world! Your enthusiasm really gets me pumped to write these chapters. I hope you guys are having just as much fun reading these chapters as I am writing them! Thank you so much for your support and enthusiasm!

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His alarm ruins the sweet dreams of a warmer, brighter place. It reminds him very quickly, though, that there is work to be done—a town to protect. The pressure on his chest reminds him of the events last night, which escalated and fell into what he had now: a Survivor curled up in his lap, clinging to his loose button-up pajama top, cheek pressed onto his collar bone. He slumbers peacefully, no troubled expression like he had before; eyes shut softly, lips opened just a bit to allow air within. Alfred finds himself smiling without noticing, and even stranger, that he is running his hands through the soft sand-blond hair of the man atop him. The feeling that lingers on his skin once he halts the actions his hands takes is something he has never experienced—it is something beautiful without really being aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

Guilt courses through his veins as he begins to pry Arthur off of his torso. In place of his warm body, he leaves a pillow, allowing his guest to hug it. He suppresses a chuckle when he sees the smile Arthur makes. As quietly as he can, Alfred leaves the bedroom and walks to his bathroom, closing the door and removing his clothing, stepping into the shower and running the water at the exact temperature he has always preferred it. Warm, with just a hint of the biting cold at the end, waking him fully. He dries his hair in a matter of minutes, walking back into his bedroom to grab a fresh pair of boxer, putting these on before he steps into the thick, padded leather jumpsuit required for his profession. It takes all of his willpower not to look back at Arthur sleeping on his sofa.

With his rifle strapped to his back and his knife to his belt, Alfred exits his apartment and takes whichever elevator is available down the lobby, out the large gold-edged window doors that open on their own as he passes, and into the lifeless morning streets he has become so accustomed to.

Arthur wakes, very slowly, from his slumber, only to find that the object he had believed to be Alfred was far too soft and pliable to be human. His eyes snap open, taking in the sight of the pillow he holds to his chest. "Alfred?" Arthur lifts his head, sitting up and stretching out before he stands to look around the apartment. In every room he calls, "Alfred?" Every time, he huffs and deflates when his question goes unanswered; it is only when he remembers that Alfred works in the mornings that he stops what he's doing to laugh at himself. Instantaneously, his thoughts drift to Alfred. He allows these thoughts as he goes about his lonely morning.

Alfred starts his motorcycle and rides about with the morning air whipping his hair. It's impossible for him not to look at those walls now and wonder just what lies behind them. He has always wondered, ever since Arthur's stories of his life among his fellow Survivors, what it would be like to live among them. Would he be happier? What is it like, to live among "normal" human beings? He keeps wondering. Stories, he knows, will never be the same as experiencing things for himself.

No beasts have climbed the walls to the city in three long years. The last beast to climb over was the one to change his life indefinitely. It brought him Arthur, it brought him trouble, and it brought him happiness. How strange, the way the world works! Sometimes the vilest of things can bring out the best in people. Alfred watches the top of the gray wall in hope that no monster will clamber up and over to ruin the quiet peace of this morning.

It seems as if his world comes to a standstill when a cold gust of air suddenly pushes itself against his face. The air is like a beast's jaws snapping shut around his skull, shaking him and slicing open his face, tongue lapping at the blood that seeps from the newly-made seams. He knows it is impossible for the winter wind to bite him, but it feels this way, and it reminds him of something Arthur once said.

"_Jackfrost nipping at your nose…you don't normally get frostbite in this city, do you?"_

"_Well, no," _Alfred replies, _"not really. The heaters haven't broken in a decade."_

"_That's what they __**tell**__ you. Do you really know if they have?"_

"_No…"_

Was it not for the need for two hands, Alfred would have snapped his eyes shut and slapped a hand to his face, rubbing it in an attempt to warm it up, checking to make sure that no blood collects on his fingers. Instead, he ignores his mind playing tricks on him—telling him that blood trickles down his face—and focuses on doing his job, watching the sun rise and set. The color begins to return to the pallid sky, hidden just slightly by the fat gray clouds hanging in the sun's way. Their edges are a pretty orange, like sorbet, telling Alfred it is time to return home. He is thankful for their warning signal as one would be thankful for their boss telling them their shift is over. Really, the sun is more of his boss than Mr. Braginsky is. It is rare for Alfred to see him, seeing as the man always manages to keep himself busy with one thing or another. He has heard from multiple sources that Ivan does research regularly. How rare it is to hear that in such times!

Alfred rushes his motorcycle back to its garage. He wheels it back in and walks out, the door shutting behind him. In recent times, he has found that the motorcycle he thought of as his sole companion did not bring him exhilaration any longer. It brought him only a sinking feeling and a shaking fear of what may happen if he takes his eyes off the road for very long. The streets are still very quiet as he walks home. No one leaves their homes until the sun is down, the sky is dark, and the gaudy lights in their multiple colors have switched on. Once these requirements are met, the music is on full-blast and the people crowd the streets all night.

He takes the fastest elevator up to his apartment, having rushed past everyone wishing him hello and a relaxing evening, asking if he'll be at this person's party, wondering if he has any plans for the night. Alfred is far too excited to see Arthur again to pay them any attention. As soon as he opens the door and shuts it tight behind him, he calls out, "Arthur! I'm back!"

"Who else would it be?" Arthur retorts from further off inside the apartment.

Alfred walks into the living room, to find that the Survivor sits on his sofa, mending a ripped shirt's sleeve at the shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe some stranger who forced me to tell them everything, stole my voice, and broke into my apartment to see if you were really here or not?"

"Because that's all _really_ possible," Arthur rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Alfred! Be reasonable if you're going to make up stories."

The Slayer laughs as he leans over the back of his sofa to press his cheek against Arthur's in a small greeting – like a hug, without having to hold one close; like a kiss, without lips meeting the skin. "Have you done anything today but sew?"

"Ripping your clothes and fixing them is the basis of my day," he retorts sarcastically, though he smiles at Alfred and presses his own cheek against the other's, "of course I've done other things!"

"Like what?"

"I've taken a shower."

Alfred laughs again. "Is that all?"

Arthur scowls. "…Just about."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he continues to tease; "you could have watched TV, or something."

"Because I'd _really _subject myself to that kind of torture."

"You subject yourself to me every day."

"That's very true," Arthur chuckles quietly, grinning up at Alfred. "I guess there's no difference between the media and mindless Alfred, now is there?"

"None at all!" Alfred hops over the side of the sofa and sits next to Arthur, close enough where their legs touch. Arthur leans his head against the other man's shoulder, closing his eyes, setting down the half-mended shirt. They settle down into a quiet moment, in which Arthur ponders how his feelings could have grown, and Alfred wonders why things have come to where they stand now. That is, they would have thought of these things, if the door hadn't called out about a stranger at the door.

"**Mr. Jones! Braginsky, Ivan at the door. Mr. Jones! Answer your door! Braginsky, Ivan at the door!**"

"What would he be doing here…?!" Arthur hisses, eyes wide with fear. Both men stand at the very same time.

"I don't know, but come with me," Alfred grabs Arthur by the wrist and rushes to his bedroom's closet, shoving the Survivor inside. "You're going to have to stay completely quiet, and…hide in the corner, over there!" He gestured at the corner furthest from the door – it was darkened and looked easy to blend in with.

Arthur did as he was told as quickly as he could, talking in a hushed tone, "what are you going to do?"

"I-I," Alfred looks away, starting to shut out the light. "…I'm not sure." And he shuts the door, rushing for the still-signaling alarm towards the front. He brushes his hair back, calms himself, rubs the sweat from his palms onto his jumpsuit (leaving a smudge behind), adjusts his glasses and opens the door with a wide grin. "Mr. Braginsky! Hello! What are you doing here so late in the day?"

Ivan stands in his doorway, three men behind him. He looks over his shoulder at them, "Stay here, you two. You, come with me." The third man nods his head and pretends he's alert. Ivan turns his head back to face Alfred, grinning back at him. It is sharp, cruel, cold…and it makes Alfred's heart sink. He suddenly knows what the Commander is here for, and he realizes he gave him all the reasons he needed. Alfred's expression sinks to that of a defeated man. "Ah, hello, Mr. Jones! You wouldn't mind if we did a search of your home, would you?"

"You don't trust me, Mr. Braginsky?"

"Oh, no – not that! Never that! It is routine." Mr. Braginsky continues to grin.

"You've never done this before." Alfred's eyes narrow. "…What am I accused of?"

"Harboring a criminal," Ivan explains in as icy a voice as he can manage. It chills Alfred to the bone.

He stands to the side. "I-If you must…" He knows he has lost this fight, but he prays to the heavens that Arthur has not given up just yet.

"Thank you, Alfred." Ivan pats Alfred's shoulder as he passes. One of his men passes the both of them and scours the apartment, bringing back his numerous weapons, then looking about for hidden rooms, opening anything that can be opened. "You're a good boy." His lips are twisted into the most vindictive of smiles Alfred has ever been witness to. It is like his mother's smile after he did something to upset her, that hand coming down to smart every inch of his young body.

Alfred cannot answer. He cannot say a thing, knowing that Ivan has cornered him. Ivan knows everything. They stand there in silence, waiting for the inevitable.

And just like that, Alfred's world is in fragments.

First, he hears the officer shout, "_Found him!_"

Then there comes the screaming and struggling of the Survivor hidden away in his closet. "_Let go of me! Let go, damn it, __**let go!**_"

The officer drags Arthur, still thrashing wildly against the tight hold on his wrists, to his Commander, who laughs, his grip on Alfred's shoulder tightening painfully. "Wonderful, wonderful!" He turns back to Alfred, eyes darkened in mock-disappointment. "I thought you'd have hidden your guest better than that, Alfred. I'm disappointed in you. Not as clever as I thought, are you?" When Alfred, head hung, does not answer, he barks an order to his officer, "Secure Mr. Jones, will you? I'll handle our Survivor friend."

They make the switch. Ivan instantly takes a hold of Arthur's cropped hair, tossing him to the tiled floor. "Ah, my new friend…what is your name?"

Arthur groans, rubbing at his scalp. He does this until Ivan grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him up; he chokes out, "A-Arthur! Arthur Kirkland!"

"Arthur," Alfred's eyes are wide as he whispers this. He stares in horror at the scene taking place in front of him.

Ivan gives him a sadistic grin. "Arthur? What a nice name. Are you or are you not responsible for the string of murders three years ago?"

"I would never do such a thing!" The grip on the back of his neck tightens, fat fingers wrapping around his throat. He kicks and struggles for air. "N-No! I'm not! I'm not!" When the grip on his throat tightens, he finds it hard to take in even small amounts of air. "Sto-op it…! I – am – i-innocent!"

Ivan growls and removes his grip on Arthur's neck, raising his hand to strike the Survivor now slumped on the floor. "Do not lie to me, you worthless little—"

"Stop!" Alfred cannot stand back any longer. He breaks away from the officer holding him down and rushes forward, grabbing Ivan's hand and struggling with the much taller, much more intimidating man for power. By some miracle, he tackles the Commander down and rushes over to Arthur's side, cradling his head in his arm, saying anything that comes to mind. "Arthur, Arthur…" "Are you alright?" "He didn't hurt you too much, did you?"

As soon as he had done this, Ivan stood, pulling Alfred away from Arthur with a much stronger shove against the chest. "Oh, do you care for him?" His tone is mocking, drenched with dark laughter. "Caring for a Survivor…how disgusting you've become, Alfred. To think that I hired someone like you." He snarls as he grabs Alfred by the hair, dragging him back over to Arthur. From his back pocket he pulls a pair of handcuffs, one side's cold metal wrapped around Alfred's wrist, the other circling Arthur's. "Fraternizing with the enemy…well, you get what you deserve, don't you? And you most certainly deserve this…this _ugly_, _despicable_, _filthy_ creature!"

Alfred glares up at Ivan, holding his tongue only for the sharp tug Arthur gives to their connected arms. "Alfred…please. _Don't_."

Suddenly, Ivan's eyes soften upon the two. Their foreheads touch, Alfred's hand covering Arthur's. He sighs. "This will be the last time you see him, though. Because I care for you – and only for this reason – I will give you some time to say goodbye. Come," he gestures for his officer to follow him to the balcony, "let us give them some privacy." The two disappear behind the double-doors.

"Oh, no," Arthur whimpers when he is sure Ivan has gone, "what do we do? He'll be back soon, and—and—!"

"I'm so sorry, Arthur," Alfred whispers, his fingers kneading small circles on the back of Arthur's hand.

"Don't apologize, Alfred. This would have happened any way it had gone, and it's in no way your fault." He sighs heavily, shakes visibly. "Alfred…this may be the last time I see you…"

Alfred's eyes snap open. "No! No, don't—don't say that, Arthur! Don't say that…" He bites his lip, thinking hard. "There has to be some way…because damn it, I'm not going to let either of us die!" He lets his mind go back to some place; any place, trying to find some way from the city. 'Out of the city! We need to get out of the city!' Alfred knows this already. 'Out of the city…but how? There's virtually no way, unless…would it still be there…?' He remembers from his orientation of the job something he found very peculiar: a route which Slayers could access, leading out of the city and into the wilderness, should a civilian be carried off. This is their only hope for survival, he realizes. Taking one look back at the shut-tight balcony doors, Alfred begins to stand, tugging Arthur up with him. "Come on."

"What are you doing?" Arthur looks suspicious.

"We have to get out of here, Arthur." Alfred pulls the cloak he had found on Arthur from his coat closet, draping it over him and tying it tight around his shoulders, pulling the hood up to conceal his face.

"And how do you suppose we'll do that?!"

Alfred turns his gaze to meet Arthur's. They stare into one another's steady eyes, finding courage. It's all they need. "Trust me on this, will you?"

Arthur's eyes fall shut, his chin jutted outward. Very slowly, he nods. "I trust you, Alfred."

The Slayer's face is warmed with a brilliant smile. "Good." He holds the hand that he is already joined with as he rushes to the kitchen table and grabs his hunting knife, strapping this to his hip, knowing the rifle will do him no good where they are about to go. As soon as he has this necessity, Alfred leads Arthur to the front door, opening it quickly. The guards make a start; Alfred hits the one to his left behind the neck hard enough to knock him out, pulling his knife on the other. No threat is needed—the guard shakes, curls up in a ball, and promises to pretend like he didn't see anything if Alfred would just let him leave. Satisfied with this, he puts his knife away and continues down the hall, Arthur nearly tripping over his heels with every step they take.

They take the only elevator available, closing the doors before another can get inside. It takes all but ten seconds, before the doors open to the crowded apartment lobby, and they are sprinting once again, shoving people out of their way with no apologies, rushing through the doors and into the crowded streets. They attempt to flow with the crowd as much as possible, but find themselves sucked into the chaotic center of the mass. Arthur's breathing suddenly picks up, erratic and off-beat. He presses himself as close as he can get to Alfred, as if attached bodily, shutting his eyes tight and groaning continuously.

"_Make it stop, Alfred…God, it's so loud…augh! Hurry! Hurry, please!"_ The desperate whine of Arthur's voice is enough to spur Alfred on at a faster pace than before.

He uses his superior strength and weight—along with his influence—to drive through the swarm of raving people, shouting at them, "Excuse me! Excuse me; please get out of my way! Sorry to disturb you – I have somewhere to be!" Most comply, while others continue to stand in his way. These few individuals are those he pushes from his desired path.

Like a fish thrown back into water after a long period on dry land, Arthur gasps for the air he's had during his panic, hanging his head and shoulders. "I'm…sorry – j-just – never…crowds," Arthur explains breathlessly, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Yet Alfred still understands, "It's not really your fault, Arthur." He tugs on their joined wrists sharply. "We have to keep moving, though. Are you alright to at least walk?"

"A light jog will – will be alright," Arthur scowls a bit. "I'm not – th-_that_ bad-off."

Alfred grins. "You really do like to prove me wrong, don't you? Let's go." He speaks with utmost fondness before tugging him along at a slower pace than before, on the edge of the city now, the music and screaming still loud behind them, even as they reach the thick gray wall.

"What now?" Arthur murmurs, staring up at the edge, as if freedom is so far away…

"Follow me," Alfred walks along the edge, Arthur following along faithfully – though he has no choice at this point – as he scours the barren landscape encompassing its length. They follow its circular shape until something in Alfred's memory tells him to stop. "If I'm right, it's here…" Alfred steps down towards the small depression in the ground he remembers, spotting a small scanning pad one would not notice if just passing by. He rushes forward, pressing a small button on its side. The machine clicks to life.

"_**Emergency Retrieval Tunnel Scanning Pad**__; please press the pad of your left hand's thumb to scanning screen._" Alfred does as the machine orders. It hums and clicks as it processes the information. Arthur stares at it with distrust, eyes narrowed. "_Completed. __**Jones, Alfred F.**__; Slayer __**#50**__. Please stand by._" Several seconds ticked by before the whole section of the wall rumbled and sunk into the ground below it, revealing a tunnel running through to the other side.

Both stand there in shock, staring at their path to freedom. As if thinking the whole thing is a trick, Arthur laughs and looks behind him. No one pursues them, no one watches. He looks back at the tunnel and uses his right arm to reach out, holding it in the tunnel for a few seconds before pulling back. It all sinks in, slowly, that their path to freedom is his path home. "Alfred," he whispers, turning his head to look at him. "This can't—"

"It is," Alfred says in just as quiet of a voice. He shuts his eyes tight. "We have to keep going. They might pursue us further, but this is how it should be. Arthur…let's go."

Arthur applies a small amount of pressure to the hand he still holds. "Yes. Let us move on. You'll see, Alfred. Maybe, just maybe…maybe you were meant to come to us this way. Come on." He leads them down the tunnel, holding Alfred's hand firmly along the way. A sudden cold leaks through his jumpsuit, chilling him to the very marrows of his bones. This cold is a reminder to him. Alfred turns his head and looks back at the world he's leaving. His world. The world he once believed to be the only thing that mattered, the world in which everything came to a start and spiraled down to this end. With this one look back at the world he was leaving, he turns his head towards the world he'll soon enter. Ahead of him, just three yards away now, the heavy stone door slides down, revealing a blinding white world. Behind him, the door slides shut. Alfred feels, somehow, that they are far from the end. This is just another stop on the road.

A portion of him feels torn. The other feels relieved. Alfred is not sure whether he should take sides, even with his own opinions. His breath shakes as he releases it, shivers as he sucks it in. It comes in ethereal puffs now, so close to the blinding white world. "Arthur?" He stops dead in his tracks.

Arthur turns. "Alfred, what is it? Why did you stop?"

"It's just…I don't know." He looks away. "I'm sorry. Let's just keep going—" He tries to walk forward, but Arthur places a hand on his chest.

"No, Alfred," Arthur speaks softly, "everything will be alright. I can promise you this, just as you promise me so much more." He smiles, and it spreads to Alfred's face as well.

"Alright. Thank you; I needed that…"

"Are we ready to continue on?"

Alfred nods his head. "Yeah. Let's go."

Together, they step into the blinding white world, looking forward in wonder at the frozen forest before them. The second door slides shut. There is no turning back now.

Their breath shows how it exits. Alfred finds this to be the most stunning thing he's seen in a long time. The forest is beautiful. All around them, the trees are bare and weighed down with snow. Alfred knows that the snow is just a blanket for the forest while it sleeps. Everything, so new, blocks out the cold that Arthur shivers against.

"We should get going," Arthur says, starting to walk off. Alfred follows when he feels the sharp tug against his wrist. "It'll only get colder, and it's about a six hour walk from here."

"Six hours?" Alfred will not complain. As he walks, he grins down at his feet making tracks in the snow. "That's so cool," he whispers.

Above them the snow begins to fall. In the morning, their tracks will be covered. Arthur is comforted by this. He shoves his free hand in his pocket. "We'll be lucky not to get frostbite in this kind of weather…"

"Then I guess we should hurry." Alfred keeps an even pace with Arthur, careful not to lag or break ahead.

"I believe that would the best choice for the both of us." But neither speeds up. They keep the same speed, looking around the forest together. Arthur finds the forest to be a vague memory. Alfred finds it all fresh, new and exciting. They will remember this forest – they know this as well as they know that winter will melt into a warmer time and a warmer place.

As they walk, the air around them seems to get colder. The snow wets Alfred's hair and skin, makes him shiver uncontrollably. He finds that his fingers have turned a sickly whitish color, feeling nothing when he bends them. Arthur gasps when he sees this. "Alfred! Don't do that!" Arthur orders him to tuck his free hand under his armpit, and reluctantly, Alfred does so. The two shiver with the nightfall. It is hard to see, but Alfred could care less. He is more concerned with his sudden stupor, a desire to lay his head down on a pillow. Arthur keeps him awake, looking at him with a worried expression. Alfred is not sure why.

After what seems to be most of the day, they stop in a small clearing. Alfred sighs heavily as he leans against a tree, shaking. "H-How far away are we?" His speech is slightly slurred, though he figures this is from his drowsiness.

"Two hours away, I'd venture." Arthur leans against the tree now as well.

"Two hours?! Ugh!" He continues to shiver. "It's re-really cold…"

"I know," Arthur attempts to soothe, pressing himself against Alfred's body. He raises their connected arms up so that they are out of the way, unharmed. "But we'll get there, I promise."

"H-How are you so warm?"

"My cloak is made of a thick fabric," Arthur explains, while still trying to warm Alfred's core with his own body. "It helps to shut out the cold a bit, at the least."

Bells chime in the distance, breaking through the dead silence of the sleeping forest. Subtle sounds of clopping hooves draw their attention to their left, where the trees bend along a cleared, snowy path. A song hummed to the winds is just barely caught by their ears. "…Wha's that?" Alfred blinks slowly.

"A horse-drawn sleigh," Arthur whispers with a wide smile. The sleigh gets closer by the second. Arthur pulls away from Alfred, tugging on his arm. "Come on! If it's coming this way, it can bring us to town!" This spurs Alfred to follow after him.

Indeed, the sleigh gets closer. Two powder-white horses attached to a black sleigh with red velvet upholstery trots their way, a single driver standing in the front with a long black whip, dressed in a warm fur coat with a wide-brimmed hat. He seems to spot them walking towards his sleigh, as he stops his singing and halts the horses with a commanding tug of the reigns in his other hand, grinning at them before he sees their condition. "Whoa—how long have you two been out here for?"

"I'd venture four hours. Please, if you will – take us to town!"

"You'd best get in. Come on now, I'll have you with the Elder in a short hour!"

Arthur helps the dazed Slayer into the sleigh, pulling the blankets over the both of them. "Thank you – I'm afraid we might have a bit of frostbite, not to mention my companion. He's begun showing signs of hypothermia."

"It's not a problem," the man replies, cracking his whip to get the horses going, turning the sleigh around and setting them off at a fast trot. The powder-white horses whinny at the crack near their feet before starting off down the road. "May I know your names?"

"The man next to me is Alfred F. Jones," Arthur smiles a bit, "but you already know me, I'm sure. Arthur Kirkland."

"Ah!" The man seems surprised. "Oh, my – I didn't even recognize you, Arthur! You've been away for three years, so don't get angry when I say that! Everyone's been so worried about you…what happened?!"

"Many things that would take quite some time to explain. When I have the time, I'll tell everyone." Arthur settles back against the seat, looking over at Alfred, whose eyes are half-lidded. He frowns a bit. Everything falls silent with the slumbering forest; as if afraid they might wake it up.

It is broken with Alfred's voice, "Arthur?"

"Yes, Alfred?" His frown deepens.

"You said you wanted to take a sleigh ride through the forest with someone else, right?" Alfred takes a short pause. "Well…I'm here." Through his hypothermia-induced haze, he sees these things, at least.

Arthur cannot deny the good company. He scoots closer to Alfred and presses his cheek against his arm, smiling up at the sleepy man next to him. "I know." Sitting next to each other, huddled under the warming blankets, the two watch the wintry scenery pass by at the even pace of two powder-white horses, their hooves keeping beat to the melody of hibernating life.

Alfred kept awake until they reached the town southwest of his old home, nestled in the center of the forest. The town is asleep, covered in a white blanket of snow. Old-looking homes Alfred has never seen before cover the cobble-stone streets. Lanterns atop black-painted metal poles keep a dim glow on the town. His lips curl into a sleepy smile. "You're home, Arthur."

"No," Arthur lifts his head from its place on Alfred's arm to look the Slayer—now ex-Slayer—in the eye. "_We're_ home."


	5. Chapter Five

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Five-

**A/N: **Sorry to tell you guys this…but I'm back in school, so I've got to slow down my updates; plus, I'm working (slowly!) on a three-shot on top of this.

As for Speech and Debate, I just found out that not only am I going to the competition at Harvard in February, but I SHOULD be going to States, which means I have to practice twice as hard (and therefore twice as long). I apologize for all the hectic goings-on in my life right now – second semester is _always_ really busy.

Anyhow…on to Chapter Five! Enjoy, everyone!

---

The sleigh pulled them up to a three-story building. "Here's the hospital, Arthur. You had better get in there – I'll inform the Elder that you're back, and you've brought us a new friend." Both Arthur and Alfred step from the sleigh, shivering, and rush inside while the man cracks the whip and the powder-white horses move him off down the street.

"Come on, Alfred," Arthur opens the door and tugs Alfred inside, voice hushed and worried. "Hurry, hurry. We'd better get you treated as soon as possible!"

They go no further than the main lobby before the receptionist notices their states and gestures them into a room, sitting them both down on the single bed the room hosts. "Wait right here, you two. I'll get a nurse in here right away."

"Arthur," Alfred leans his head against Arthur's shoulder, eyes shut. "I'm tired…"

"Don't fall asleep on me now, Alfred," Arthur turns his head to press his forehead against Alfred's temple, speaking directly into his ear. "Come on, keep awake. Tell me what you think of the world outside your city so far."

"Mm…it's nice. Really quiet and peaceful…uhm…I can't think of the – the word…" Alfred yawns slightly. "Old-fashioned? Somethin' like that…"

"Quaint?" Arthur guesses, frowning. He plays with Alfred' hair using his free hand.

"Yeah…that…"

At this moment, their nurse rushes in, dressed in a white skirt with a white scrub top, pinned back neatly against their thin frame; their blond bangs were pinned to the top of their head, while the rest of their hair was pulled into a small ponytail at the very back of their head, barely touching the neck. The strangest part was that said nurse was male. "Sorry to keep you guys, like, waiting; I had to finish helping another patient, and—Arthur?!"

Arthur smiles at the nurse, removing his forehead from its place against Alfred's temple. "It's good to see you again, Feliks."

"Oh my God, everyone was, like, so worried! Where have you been?!"

"Shouldn't you be starting treatment?" Arthur's smile turns wry at this.

"S-Sorry," Feliks takes one look at Alfred and becomes somewhat embarrassed. He steps forward, taking their vitals and looking over their bodies, frowning. "Alright. It looks like your friend is starting to show signs of hypothermia, and your fingers – plus your toes – have superficial frostbite. I'll, like, go get some warm water. While I'm gone, put your fingers under your armpits or in the area of your groin." He trots from the room and leaves the two alone.

Alfred grins. "Area of the groin?"

"Oh, _now_ you're alert," Arthur glares as he places his free hand under his own armpit. "Put your other hand under your armpit, git."

He does as he's told with his left hands, raising their linked arms and placing them between Arthur's legs, still grinning sleepily.

"Alfred!" Arthur's cheeks color bright red. He tries to lift their arms up, but Alfred stubbornly keeps them there, using the little bit of strength he has left in him to torture the Survivor. "Stop it – this is very inappropriate behavior for a public place!"

"I'm only doing what the nurse told us to do," Alfred has an innocent edge to his voice.

Feliks walks back into the room and flushes at what he sees, before shaking his head and laughing under his breath. "Alright guys, I have the warm water. So, like, take your shoes off and stuff, then put them in the water basin." They do as instructed, the warm water feeling pleasant on their skin. Alfred feels a slight sting in his toes and winces. "Opps. I like, totally forgot to mention that. Frostbite can cause a little pain when it's thawing." When Feliks hands them basins to put their hands in, they dunk them in the warm water as well. "You should be fine, though. Be right back, guys!" Feliks trots from the room once more, returning with blankets and two mugs of some warm drink. "Blankets and hot cocoa for the cold!" He sets the mugs down on a table near the bed, flinging a blanket around each of them, making sure not to let the pre-warmed blankets touch their arms or legs. "I'll be back in, like, an hour or so to check up on you guys. Drink that cocoa while it's still warm!" And Feliks leaves them alone for the third time that night.

Alfred sighs, attempting to keep himself relaxed. "Tell me what spring is like again."

Arthur removes his hands from the warm water to grab the mug of hot cocoa, taking a careful sip. He places it back down, picking up Alfred's cup and raising it to his lips. "Only if you drink your cocoa – I'll even hold the cup for you." With a sigh, Alfred opens his mouth and permits Arthur to pour some of the warm drink down his throat, allowing it to be half-emptied before he nudges the cup away with his chin. Arthur clicks his tongue, wiping away the little traces of the liquid from the edges of Alfred's mouth. "You're such a messy fool…"

"Mm…keep your promise." Alfred leans his head against Arthur's shoulder.

"Alright, alright," the Survivor sighs, putting his hands back in the warm water. "Spring is a lovely time of the year. The forest just seems to burst to life. Rain starts to fall, and the flowers drink the water and bloom. You can smell the petrichor in the forest—"

"Petrichor?"

"The smell of the earth after it rains, Alfred. Don't interrupt! Now, then. You can smell the petrichor in the forest almost every day around here, and it's just so relaxing. Many people hate the rain, but I love it. And the best part is when—Alfred?" Alfred fell asleep on Arthur's shoulder, breathing softly. He sighs. "Alfred…sleep well." All two hours of their time alone, Arthur watches Alfred sleep.

Feliks returns to check up on them, and after thoroughly inspecting their hands and fingers, tells them that they can go home. "Just, like, keep your friend wrapped up in a blanket, and make sure to cover his head, too!" They did just that – a blanket was draped over Alfred's head, while he hugged the rest of it to his slowly warming body. The blood in his veins began to flow now, his fingers turning bright red at the tips. He knows very well that they will return to normal color soon enough.

"Thank you, Feliks. If we see the Elder, we'll tell him that you did a wonderful job treating us," Arthur offers as he begins to tug Alfred through the door behind him.

"Thanks! And you might wanna see him pretty soon – those handcuffs are, like, not going to come off easily." The nurse waves at them as they walk down the hallway.

"We'll be sure to do that!" Arthur walks from the building and leads them through the chilly streets, his heart and body warmed, though the metal chaining the two together is cold and oppressive. They can forget this as they roam the town under the dim lantern light, forgiving their mistakes and their enemies – Alfred, for the most part. Alfred cannot be sure if Arthur truly forgives others. If he did, then why would he speak so poorly of them? It just didn't seem right, but he'd have to accept it for the time being. He'd have to accept it until he understood.

The two stop at a two-story, old-looking home (far older than several of the homes they'd passed before it, Alfred notes), further off into what looked to be a section where the outlines of the woods was concave. Arthur looked about in paranoia, before reaching under the windowsill, retracting his hand to reveal a shining silver key. He begins to undo the lock while his hands shake, keeping as quiet as possible. Alfred wonders why this is, when the Survivor would normally curse up a storm at his uncharacteristically shaky hands.

A sound in the woods stops him from asking Arthur if he needs assistance with the lock. Alfred feels strangely drawn to this sound. It is a gentle whisper, like a calm wind against the face, asking for help in the gentlest, most appealing way possible. "_Please…come here._" While Alfred's eyes become further lidded, Arthur whines from the top of his throat, panic overtaking him. He works quicker with the lock, hands shaking more violently. "_Help me, will you? Come here, please_." No more than a whisper in a raspy, practiced voice. Arthur's whines become groans of mortal terror. Just as a twig snaps in the woods and Alfred's mind falls from its drug-like state into fear in full bloom, Arthur unlocks the door, pulls the key from the lock, opens the door and drags them inside, slamming the door shut and locking it tight. When he is sure that the locks are secure, he sinks down against the door; Alfred forced to sit as well.

"What was that?" Alfred's curiosity took the best of him now. Such a strange moment of terror merits attention, doesn't it?

"J-Just the wind," Arthur seems to trying to trick himself into believing this – Alfred will have none of it.

"No, really," Alfred's eyes narrow, "what was that? It was…strange."

Alfred sees Arthur lean his head back, trying not to look through the inky darkness that surrounds his long-abandoned and dusty home. The wooden floors beneath them are cold. "People say it's a rumor to protect the children from the panic adulthood brings around these parts. But…that thing? I'm certain of it. It's what the people have been calling a _crocotta_."

"Crocotta?"

"Yes. That is…a beast, in its grotesque form – or so people say it looks grotesque – that was infected with the virus that made it what it is. It used to be a wolf, people say. When it was infected, its virus was so evolved that it morphed the wolf into something far more beast-like than imaginable. They say that the crocotta can mimic human speech patterns, and…that it can hold a conversation with another from what it's learned. They say that it listens for names and uses them to draw people out into the woods, where it eats them whole. It has a voracious appetite and an even worse temperament."

Something bothered him about this story. A sudden weight came down to press on his chest, making it hard to breathe. "But…don't beasts come out in the daytime? Why is it out right now, when it's dark?"

"That's what no one is sure of. I believe that it is far smarter than we give it credit for. It must know that the time where it's easiest to pick us off is during the night, when the few of us that are up at this time are mostly alone. I fear who it will take next. Almost every day, a child goes missing from these woods…and I keep hearing their screams in my nightmares." Arthur's shoulders are tense. A wave of pity sweeps Alfred off his feet, and before he realizes it, he's standing up.

"…Come on, Arthur. Let's go to bed." He knows it's best to distract Arthur from his worries at this point.

Arthur looks up at him, standing slowly. His hand is clasped around Alfred's, where they cannot separate more than an inch. "Yes. I believe that would be best." He scours about the room for something, making a small noise of triumph when he finds his box of matches and a candle nearby. One strike and the match lights, one small second of contact with the wicker and the candle is alight. Arthur blows the match out and carries the candle with him, leading the two of themselves up the stairs with as little tripping as possible, up into his bedroom, where he walks around the room and lights the candles in it slowly, until the room is illuminated in dim lighting.

Alfred can make out the neatly-made bed, the wall-length bookshelves cover and entire wall of the room, crammed full with books collecting dust. There are nightstands on either side of the bed big enough for two, and on one side of the room, Alfred spots a wardrobe. From the corner of his eye he sees the way the metal of the handcuff shines eerily in the candlelight, and how the dimness of the room seems to bring Arthur's face a certain look Alfred found indescribable. The dark shadows gave his usually-handsome face a nice shape, accenting the profile well enough where Alfred could have thought Arthur to be someone of aristocracy. Something seemed to stir in him at that. Arthur suddenly would not leave his mind. All he could think about were those undeniably beautiful green eyes, of the forest, of nature, of the things he was going to see – of his future – and the dim flicker the candles cast upon them, highlighting his serious stature and attractive points, kindling the fires in Alfred's heart again, where Arthur had touched him twice before.

"Alfred?" And his voice seemed different, too! It had a subtler, musical way of speaking, while the rest was gentle, hiding the usual sharp element Alfred had grown akin to. His heart skipped at such a beautiful way of saying his name. He reveled in it, doubting he would ever forget the way Arthur spoke this particular night. Arthur had put the candle down on the nightstand. "How do you like your new home?"

But Alfred was not going to answer directly. Instead of speaking with his voice, he leaned forward to speak with his actions. His lips met with the equally-dry and chapped pair that Arthur owned, his free arm snaking around Arthur's waist to pull him closer. _"I think I'll love being here, as long as I can stay near you."_

"_I thought you would say something like that,"_ says Arthur's actions as he complies to Alfred's ways, allowing himself to get lost in the way his skin feels, tasting Alfred on his lips as both dance in unison, using only their darting pink tongues between mouths – close, intrusive contact: the only sort of which they feel comfortable performing. Their attached wrists are weighed down with memories of a cruel hand and cold eyes, scrutinizing further activity. Even this dance was pushing it. Alfred, ever defiant, considered pushing their boundary, but met opposition with their dance coming to an end by Arthur's request, green eyes boring into his own blue pair. He reinforces this boundary with breathless words that make Alfred's spirit flare up, desiring to continue, but holding back nonetheless, knowing he will get what he desires soon enough one day. "Alfred, I'm very tired." So they lay down in the cold bed that they will warm over night, close together, Alfred's head resting on a pillow, while Arthur uses Alfred's chest and part of his neck as one. They let sleep overtake them, with the cold metal laugh ringing in Alfred's ears as he wades through nightmares, Arthur slipping into easy sleep next to him.

At the very same time, several miles away, Ivan stands on Alfred' balcony; he is smoking his last cigarette, trying to hide his anger at this by looking over the people of his city on the streets, dancing to loud, obnoxious music. "Such foolish people. So easily manipulated. Don't you think, Toris?"

His officer frowns, but nods. Somehow he feels that his Commander is speaking not only of the people on the streets, but of other government officials. How else had someone so frightening gotten into power? No one seemed to consider how great of a tactician Ivan could be – manipulation was, perhaps, his greatest skill in this area. "Yes, sir. I agree wholeheartedly, sir." What else was he to say?

"Haha, Toris…! You agree so easily, like the others. I thought you were smarter than that?" Ivan is not facing him, but Toris has been around his Commander long enough to know when he's trying to make him nervous.

"I can't a-agree w-with you, sir?" Despite knowing what Ivan is doing, he still becomes nervous.

"On the contrary," Ivan replies, taking his time to blow thick curls of smoke around him, distracting his rage at this being his last cigarette for the day. He turns to smirk at his most trusted officer. "Now I know that look. While you're scared I'm going to hit you again, you're also wondering about something else?"

"Yes, sir," he wasn't even going to bother denying it.

"Tell me what you're thinking, won't you?"

"Well, sir…I was wondering why you let those two get free, sir." Toris eyes his Commander with care, noting that he is not angry for asking such an intrusive and no-doubt personal question. He knows that Ivan takes his work personally – especially when someone he knows gets away from him.

Ivan turns back around, chuckling. "Ah, Toris…you have much to learn, if you're to take over for me as Commander of Armed Forces! What I did was comparable to baiting a net – if you place something in the water, fish will come to it. Then you may cast your net in and far more fish will be gained through it. It makes sense this way, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Toris' eyes are a little wide. He's not sure of what Ivan is saying, and it scares him.

"This is what I am doing with our friends Alfred and Arthur. I cast them out into the wild, allowing them to return to the people that will take Arthur back and welcome Alfred with open arms. By doing this, I then have an excuse to follow them out there with my forces, don't I?"

"One would have to agree with that, s-sir."

"Yes. And then," Ivan's laughs darkly, eyes widening. Though Toris cannot see this, he seems to _know_ this is the response Ivan gives to his own carefully-woven plan. "Then I can destroy those high-browed Survivors, crush their hope for living in peace, and bring them back to society in the city to suffer like the rest of us."

His voice is fueled by rage. Rage for something else, Toris notes. And he can't stop himself from asking, "…This has nothing to do with the Survivors, does it?"

Ivan falls silent. He takes a sharp breath; coughs like a smoker would, and lets it out shakily, shoulders scrunched up high against his neck. Toris doesn't think he'll get an answer. Two minutes later, after a fit of smoker's coughs, Ivan speaks. "It has _everything_ to do with the Survivors, Toris. There are some things you will not learn in your lifetime. I am far older than I look. Far more complex than you give me credit for at times. All that I will tell you is that I once had a heart, too.

"And the freedoms of the Survivors swallowed it whole as they marched from the city so long ago, trampling on my soul and crushing me under their controversies." Ivan flicks the butt of his used-up cigarette off the balcony carelessly, imagining it still being lit and landing on a person's head in the crowd, the whole city going up in flames. The mental image makes him smile. "I will never be as I once was, Toris. I am injured, and all you must understand is that this is a vendetta against our common enemies, for our 'common good', to crush the people that once crushed me with our own damned controversies." He passes by Toris, patting his shoulder before he turns back around and walks through Alfred's old apartment, headed for his own home several hundred blocks away. "Never forget the pain that people put you through, Toris."

Toris wants to forget the pain Ivan puts _him_ through! But he wants to remember how conflicted and jaded a man Ivan Braginsky is, all the same as he would like to make a new name for himself. Life is multifaceted, he decides.

"The sun is going to rise," he murmurs, before shutting the double-doors and heading out of the ex-Slayer's apartment, long gone, empty, and abandoned, like the minds of the people in the city. He heads home to his brothers, just fifty or so miles away, thinking to himself that he is at least thankful that Ivan allows him to see a different perspective, no matter how corrupted and deformed it is. At least, he knows, that he can decide what is clear and what is sullied when it presents itself.

In the far-off woodland that those of the city don't quite understand, Arthur shakes himself into waking. "The sun is rising," he muses, smiling at Alfred, eyes shut and breath leaving and rushing in through his nose, soundlessly sleeping. Soundlessly _struggling_, Arthur realizes – the smile slides from his face, to be replaced by a deep frown. "Alfred." He shakes the ex-Slayer to wake him, finding that he doesn't respond. With another few shakes, Alfred shoots straight up, gasping loudly. He clutches his throat in what seems to be remembrance. To avoid their foreheads smacking together, Arthur ducks to the side, eyes widening at the sight of a completely shaken Alfred, sweat covering his body like a second skin. "Alfred!"

Alfred turns to look over at Arthur, the panic in his eyes dying upon seeing him there. He lies back down on the bed and sighs. "Damn," he whispers, eyes sliding shut. "Damn…"

"Is everything alright?" Arthur dabs at the sweat accumulated on Alfred's face and neck.

"Just…a bad dream," he admits, pushing Arthur's hand away. "Don't worry about it." He forces a grin.

"Don't give me that!" Arthur glares. "Tell me what it was about."

Alfred's eyes darken. He turns his head away. "The first day I met you. You didn't wake up. Ivan laughed at me, and he wouldn't stop, and – so many things that don't really matter." A soft touch on his shoulder alerts him to Arthur's attempt to comfort him.

"And I'm here, while Ivan is within those city walls. We're away from there. Oh! Which reminds me. You wanted to see the city, didn't you?" Arthur smiles when Alfred's expression brightens into excitement. "Good. We need to visit the Elder today as well." He begins to stand, tugging Alfred up with him. They are still in their clothing from yesterday when they walk from the home and into the heart of town, around the frozen square, everyone gathering to chat or sell their goods around the city's fountain and protector – a stone phoenix, wings wide and outstretched, rising from the snow gathered around it. The very sight of it lifts Alfred's spirit.

Arthur introduces Alfred to many people. They are all friendly and seem happy to meet him, making small talk for a few minutes before going back to their work. After most of those in the town's central district have been spoken to, Arthur leads him away from the city, down a stepping-stone path in the ground towards what appears to be a clearing in the near distance. While walking down it, Alfred looks at Arthur. "What do you do for a living here, Arthur?"

"I'm an Herbalist," Arthur smiles a bit, "so I gather herbs, mostly medicinal, and mix them together to make balms, antidotes, and serums. The Elder taught me all I know about what I do."

"Hm," Alfred lets out a soft breath – not a sigh, just a breath. "How are jobs chosen?"

"You do what you're good at. You tell the Elder, and he'll assign you what you love to do, or what you're good at. I believe the Elder will know exactly what to do with you." He stands in front of a dark wood door, fifteen feet in height, leading into a three-story home; he raps his knuckles against the dark wood three times, and after four seconds, the door is opened by a man with long, dark brown hair and rich honey-brown eyes.

"Oh, Arthur! Welcome home, my friend! We were all worried about you, aru," the Elder says, smiling. "And I heard that you brought us a new citizen!"

"Thank you, Elder Yao. I'm glad to be home." Arthur turns to the side, gesturing at Alfred. They look at one another while he does so. "Yes, I did. His name is Alfred."

Alfred lifts his free hand to wave at the Elder. "Hello! It's nice to meet you, Elder."

"The same goes for meeting you, my friend. Come inside now, aru!" He allows them to pass by him, closing the door when they've both come fully inside. The interior of his home is littered in books, tomes, lexicons, files…anything used to study from. A large globe on a golden column stands in the corner near a desk and a thick-padded chair, which the Elder walks over to and sits on, behind his desk, covered in dried herbs and documents showing detailed diagrams of flora in the area around them. "We should begin the welcoming processes, aru." They follow the path cleared on the floor towards the Elder's desk, taking two of the seats near it: the ones just barely touching. "So, Alfred. How do you like our little community so far, aru?"

"It's something I'd only heard about in the stories Arthur told me. Coming here is like finally discovering reality," Alfred admits, smiling a bit.

"I see! So you and Arthur have spent those three years together?" His eyes and his smiling tell it all – he knows their invisible, intangible connection. With a bit of embarrassment apparent in his expression, Alfred nods in agreement. "I am wondering what you did back in the city though, Alfred. What was your career then?"

"I was a Slayer," he answers. "That's how I came across Arthur."

"You saved his life, I assume? How good of you to do so, aru! And to think it brought you all the way to us! Now, my question is, would you like to take up this sort of profession in your life here?"

"Well…what are the differences between the two?" Alfred pays very close attention to what the Elder says next.

"Our equivalent of a Slayer is a Hunter. They hunt down the beasts in the morning for our dinners, twice a month on average. Typically a beast is large enough to feed our whole town for two weeks, so once the burnt meat is gone, they're sent out to hunt again. They are also in charge of laying the beasts' bones to rest once they've been picked clean." The Elder pauses when Alfred looks confused.

"You lay the beasts to rest? Even though they harass you constantly?"

"Oh, no! It's not a constant thing here. Most are smart enough to stay away from town because of the noise. Those that venture close are the ones we make our meals, aru. And even then, they were living creatures – through no fault of their own did they end up that way, too. Anything that lives deserves the respects of the body. A funeral, an existence, and a chance to be saved." His explanation had Alfred thinking once again. "Did you know that many of the Slayers in your old city have come to stay with us, aru? It's really quite amazing what that position can do for the mind. It makes people think. They venture out into the forest and find our town, visiting for a few days, before they decide to stay. Every last one of them is a Hunter now."

"You mean…they're not all dead; they didn't just quit?" Alfred feels the hand resting on top of his own tighten – Arthur's hand, giving a squeeze of encouragement.

"Not at all, aru! They're very much alive, and I'm sure they'd be glad to have a new Hunter with them, aru. So what do you say, Alfred?"

"I think that sounds great." He grins eagerly.

"Wonderful. You can start your training at the end of the month, aru. Now let me get you some clothing to start you out…I don't believe you wear the same size as Arthur. I'll be right back," Yao shuffles through the cleared areas on the floor and trounces up the stairs, returning just a few minutes later with a duffel bag stuffed full with clothes. He hands this to Alfred with a smile. "These should fit you, even if they're a little big, aru. Now enjoy the rest of your day!"

"Um, Elder! We still have a problem to discuss," Arthur interrupts, frowning deeply.

"You may tell me about how you got here tomorrow, Arthur. Go on; enjoy the rest of your day! We'll need you back at work the same day as Alfred begins his training, though, aru." He gestures for them to stand and leave, but Arthur only continues to frown.

"Elder…we've been handcuffed together." To prove this, Arthur lifts their connected arms.

Alfred smiles sheepishly. "It was a parting gift from the Commander, I guess."

"Ah," the Elder nods his head sagely, walking off further into the house once again. "I'll be right back." He returns much quicker than before, bringing with him a small, narrow tool. "This should work, aru. Lift your hands and roll up your sleeves." The two do as instructed. He works on Alfred's cuff first, picking the lock with the small tool in under five minutes, while Arthur's comes off a little quicker. When the cold metal links are removed, the Elder tosses them onto his desk. "I'll figure out what to do with those later, aru. Now go enjoy the rest of the month off, you two!"

"Goodbye, Elder," Arthur waves along with his farewell, Alfred simply waving; the two walk back into the cold world outside, arms linked with the hold they have on one another's hands. They rejoin the people in town, spending the rest of the evening regaling children and adults alike with their tales of how things were in the city and their escape from its oppression through the tunnel and the wintry forest. Alfred finds himself laughing and smiling more than he has in the past few years of his life. The people he has met are colorful, each possessing something that makes them different – an individual.

In the forests, as the sun begins to set, the beasts begin to sleep – all but one. It wakes with the moon and listens carefully, waiting. The crocotta waits, as Ivan waits back in the city, for a time most perfect to strike the people in this town, to fill their greedy bellies.


	6. Chapter Six

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Six-

**A/N: **Thanks for all of your support, guys! I really appreciate every bit of it. Everything you guys have said in reviews is encouraging, helpful and very, very flattering! Now that Chapter Six is up, things are going to start taking a turn for the worst! I hope you guys enjoy this one!

A special thanks to Jupiterine in particular, who pointed out my slip-up with Arthur's accent in the last chapter. If I ever get around to fixing the mistakes in here and re-uploading the chapters all shiny and immaculate (as immaculate as I can get them), it'll be fixed for sure. Thank you, I appreciate that very much!

I feel like I haven't updated in forever. Really sorry about that, guys. …Really. (SORRY!)

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The month ended on a cold—very cold—day. A day that Alfred was not quite happy to wake up to; but he rose from the bed, finding Arthur already up and at work (a note was left for him, reading, _"At work with Kiku. Stay safe on your first day!"_). He pulled from his own dresser – just recently added and filled with the few articles of clothing Alfred owned – a loose white shirt, black pants and his jumpsuit, which he decided to stubbornly cling to, despite Arthur's pleading to rid himself of it.

"_It will just remind you of the city, when you were a Slayer,"_ Arthur's voice was a low growl.

"_I think I shouldn't forget the city. I was there for a reason, wasn't I? There's a chance we wouldn't have met if I wasn't a Slayer." _Arthur did not press the matter any further than that, but Alfred knew him well enough to know that he would glare at the leather thing if he spied Alfred's body encased in it.

He walks down the roads, roads Arthur has forced familiarity of into his mind, walks to the very edge of town. It's still shocking to find people awake and busy at the same time as he, a jolt rushing from the back of his head to the front every time he sees another pass by him, but all the same, the feeling is welcome. He feels it is something he will grow accustomed to as time passes.

The sleeping, silent forest looms in front of him, all shades of gray or white, and a practically-blank canvas for another to paint on. It would be so, so easy to ruin such a pure sight, but it is not recommended. Once the purity is ruined, winter rears back its ugly, unveiled head and reveals to its antagonist its terrible nature. Winter is a hungry thing.

Alfred stands there for a long while, waiting. He knows this is where he is to meet the other Hunters. All the same, he doubts himself. Doubt is something he continues to experience in this town, and he wonders, quite bitterly, if he will always be this unsure. His resolve shakes, and for a moment he thinks he was happier in the city, but this thought is flung from his mind before it can fully stick. There is no way for him to go back, nor rhyme or reason to doubt these people just yet. It has been two weeks, a meager amount of time, and certainly not enough to place his anger upon them!

"_Insecurities fester. People need someone to rely on. That is how revolutions are set into motion: when people doubt and trust blindly," _Arthur had told him. He would listen to what the Survivor had said, if only now, because he needed it more than ever. Knowledge was a combatant for the raging emotions inside his body. Having resolved his anger, Alfred puts his focus on his new job, waits for the moment when he can place all his troubles on the blade of his knife, slicing into a cruel creature's lifeline along its throat…

"Hey, there's the new guy!" The voice behind is high in volume. "Looks pretty clueless, huh, bruder?" Alfred turns around to look at the approaching group. The one who had shouted was red-eyed and silver-haired.

"Gilbert," another voice, strict and reprimanding, hisses at the silver-haired man next to him. His own hair is a light blond, swept back neatly, eyes a gentle robin's egg blue. "Don't be rude to our new recruit."

"Whatever," Gilbert – apparently – scoffs, turning his attention back to Alfred. "Hey, you!"

"Me?" Alfred's single-word response has just as much volume as Gilbert's.

"Who else but you? Yes! What's your name?"

Alfred glares slightly, cheeks pink from embarrassment – he would say this was because of the cold wind, if asked. "Alfred."

"Alright! Heard you were a Slayer back in the city. Some of us were, too. Bet'cha heard about the Brothers: Gilbert and Ludwig, right? That's us." Gilbert points at the taller blond next to him, who continues to scowl in distaste for his rowdy brother's behavior.

"You guys are—n-no way!" Alfred' eyes grew large upon recognition of the two. The Brothers, alive and well and…well, in this town, as Hunters! Such a famous pair – the two that had worked as Slayers before disappearing, believed dead, before Alfred took over; they were recorded to have slain more beasts than any before them. Alfred could vaguely recall his goal to defeat their record when he'd first taken the job.

Gilbert's grin grew, if such a thing was humanly possible. "You sound surprised. Were you a big fan of ours, or something?"

"More like rivals to me," Alfred retorts, his own facial expression caught between a smirk and smile.

"Ahem. I think we should finish the introductions before something bad happens," a shorter male, soft feature-wise, pipes up, a gentle touch to his voice that makes it sound as if his words dance with laughter, mimicking the emotions in his brown eyes. Gilbert glares at this man before reluctantly shutting his mouth. "I'm Tino; it's nice to meet you, Alfred! We're glad to see another Slayer join us Hunters."

"You weren't a Slayer, were you?"

"Well, no," Tino laughs quietly. "Those two are the only Slayers-turned-Hunters that are currently working. The rest either died of work-related ailments and injuries or retired. That's enough from me, though." His brown eyes turn up, as does his head, to view the taller man next to him.

"H'llo. M'Berwald," his stature would be frightening enough, but what seemed to be a perpetual glare was what really got to Alfred in the end – his blue eyes seemed narrowed, glaring hatefully down at him behind thin-framed spectacles. The ex-Slayer barely suppressed a shiver. "N'ce t'meet ya."

"Nice to meet you, too…?" Alfred was not quite sure if this was what Berwald had said. It seemed to be so, as the man nodded. He let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding.

"Introductions are over; let's get down to business. Can you shoot a bow and arrow?" Ludwig looks at Alfred expectantly.

"…What?" Alfred's confused expression tells the Hunters all they need to know.

From a quiver on his back, Gilbert pulls an arrow, shifting his bow into a respectable position. He takes a wide stance, loads the arrow, pulls the string back, and lets the arrow fly. It burrows deep into the trunk of a tree. "Like that." Gilbert hands Alfred a bow and just a few arrows kept in a small, single-strap leather quiver.

Alfred slings the quiver around himself, examining the bow. "Why don't you just use guns?"

"We don't have the materials to keep making ammunition. Arrows are a cheap and effective way to kill a beast from a distance. If you can't use a bow, you use a knife," Ludwig answers, while Gilbert corrects Alfred's stance.

"Stand like that. Wider! Alright. Now hold the arrow just like that – pull it back with the string…and release it once you've got a clear shot."

The ex-Slayer takes careful aim at the tree Gilbert had fired at just moments ago. While his eyesight was not perfect, his aim seemed well enough, as when he released the arrow and the string snapped back, the feathered weapon hit just above Gilbert's own arrow. Alfred steps back, holding the bow at his side.

"Well, that was better than most have done on their first day. Do you think he's ready to actually hunt though?" Ludwig looks over at Gilbert, who shrugs.

"Eh, let's give 'em a chance to see how it's done on his first day. So he at least knows what it's like, ya know? He can be on back-up with Tino, or something."

"That will work quite well, actually," Tino smiles, "I can teach him what to do when he's not on back-up."

"Everything's settled now, so let's get going," Ludwig turns and strides into the forest, both his voice and his movement as quiet as a cat stalking its prey. Without any hesitation, his fellow Hunters follow after him, just as quiet, with Tino and Alfred at the very back.

Moving quietly is difficult for Alfred, considering he never had to do so as a Slayer. He assumes the reason they have yet to find a beast is because of his constant noise – stepping on a twig, bumping into a low-lying branch, moving too quickly through the snow – but he truly hopes that it's just because the beasts are all hiding. With four hours burnt, they have had no luck.

The wind nips at the back of his exposed neck. Alfred closes his eyes and shivers, just as a low growl draws his attention, eyes flying open to view the scene unfolding just a few yards before him in the split second he did so. A beast apparently covered by the snow, stood on its hind legs and shook the snow from its dark brown pelt. Its paws were large, with long claws like fingers, its muzzle extended out from its face, lips black and pulled back to reveal yellow teeth, with rounded ears and flaring nostrils smelling the air around it, catching a whiff of the human-smells the group possesses. Alfred vaguely remembers seeing such an animal at the zoo once, which also stood on its hind legs and slept in the winter-time, though it was far smaller and less disfigured, with a smaller snout than this beastly creature now fired at.

"Move back," Tino grabs his arm and drags Alfred back and to the side as Gilbert shoots an arrow into the wide chest of the bear-beast, diving out of the way as it charges forward with a loud, deformed roar from its thick throat. As it passes, Tino shoots an arrow of his own into its hindquarters, moving back further with Alfred to avoid the angered charge back towards its original position he incited upon it.

Gilbert shoots into the chest once again, a little further off, while Berwald does the same to the arm, and Ludwig manages to lodge an arrow into its fat-protected belly from the side. The beast lumbers towards Ludwig, before being fired upon by Berwald, changing its position to head in that direction, Gilbert then firing again, forcing it to change its mind once more.

"What are they doing?" Alfred watches from his position near a tree.

"Confusing it; if they do this, then it's less likely that they'll get hurt. Beasts, even if heavily-built like this one, are faster than we are on occasion, especially if angered. I've seen a Hunter get attacked by a beast like this…they were in the hospital for weeks. Nearly died, too," Tino sighs at the thought, before standing up a little straighter. "Look, now. This is important."

The beast charges at Ludwig now, much slower, limbs tired from all the running and the blood matting its fur from the areas where it was punctured by sharp metal tips of arrows. As it does so, Berwald takes a wide stance, aiming carefully…just a few seconds elapse…and the arrow shoots straight ahead to bury deep into the beast's throat. It makes a strangled, gurgling sound as blood pours from its maw, staining the snow below it where red has already marked its furious circle; it walks a little ways backwards, where it sinks onto its belly with a grunt.

Berwald steps around it, walking up to the beast from behind. He jumps, and with the quickness of one fearful of what they're getting themselves into, pulls from his belt his dagger, slices into the thick gullet of the bear-beast, and jumps back before the angry creature can retaliate too quickly.

"Berwald just slit its throat so that it would bleed out faster. We don't want to cause them too much pain – beasts are still living beings, no matter how malevolent they are."

Alfred knew, from hearing Tino say this, that his words would be the most important lesson of the day.

After removing the arrows from the beast's body and salvaging those that hadn't broken in one way or another, the Hunters tied together the beast's hind legs, all working together to drag it back to town. This is the first time Alfred has assisted in their hunt, and while it is not much, Alfred feels himself at least halfway useful for assisting them. With all their effort, the beast still proved to be very heavy, as it took them four hours – the same time they had spent just wandering about to find the thing – to drag it back. They deposit the corpse in a large barn on the outskirts of the town, supposedly the Butcher's place of work.

"We expect you to practice with that bow – next time we see you, you're going to be the first one to fire a shot!" Gilbert grins in his impish way, spurring Alfred's competitive spirit to take over his voice.

"And you can expect me to be the last one to fire a shot, too!" Alfred grins right back, arms crossed, looking steadily into Gilbert's red eyes.

Gilbert's laugh causes a twinge of anger to course through him. "We'll see about that, newbie. Seeya later," he gives a short two-fingered salute, walking back with his silent brother, towards their home.

Tino smiles at Alfred, laughing in his lightly amused way. "You two certainly sound like rivals already! As arrogant as he sounds, Gilbert is a great guy – he just really doesn't like to show it. Anyhow…we should be going. Bye, Alfred!"

"Bye, guys."

The two walk off together, Berwald's hand resting atop Tino's shoulder, presumably towards the very same house. With a light sigh, Alfred walks towards the home he'd become acquainted with over the last few days, and finding Arthur still at work, decides to take a look around town for an hour or two. He speaks with vendors, gets a bit of bread from the baker (he still cannot acquire taste for the burnt meat of beasts), takes a short walk through the forest on his own despite being warned against it in his first week as a citizen of the town – he does this all before heading back home, finding that Arthur had just entered through the door a few seconds before Alfred had for the second time.

"Alfred! How was your first day?" Once he hangs up his coat and scarf, Arthur walks over to Alfred, his arms wrapping around the slightly taller male in a soft embrace, not too tight, but not too gentle, either.

"Interesting, to say the least," Alfred laughs, one arm going around Arthur's shoulders in a loose embrace of its own, while the bridge of his nose is lowered to snuff deeply the scent of something foreign to him. Medicine, maybe? He could only assume so, as he could only faintly remember the strange smell of the hospital two weeks back. When the two separated, the smell lingered in his nostrils, and fondly, he thought, 'Arthur really does smell strange.' He didn't dare say this, though he did smirk at the reaction he _knew_ Arthur would have to such an offhanded comment.

"Hm," Arthur begins to walk up the stairs. "Wait right there – I'll be back in just a moment." In the few seconds he had to himself, Alfred unstrapped his quiver and hung it on the coat rack, leaving his bow on a table nearby. Arthur returned with a book under his arm, leading Alfred into the small living room filled up with recently-dusted antiques and sitting down on his couch, Alfred joining him there, touching one another at the shoulders and the thighs, sharing their warmth. "So tell me. What exactly happened on the hunt?"

"There was a pretty small beast – ya know, small for a beast, big for an animal – which they killed. It looked a lot like something I'd seen before, but I couldn't really put my finger on it," Alfred explains, shrugging his shoulders. "I didn't really get to do anything but watch. They were pretty good on their own."

Arthur clicks his tongue. "Well. I'm sure it will be far more eventful the next time you get to hunt."

"How was your first day back?"

"Rather dry. Kiku and I caught up, did our usual mixings, administered treatments to some patients…we don't actually get to do much harvesting of herbs until the other three seasons roll about."

"When is spring going to come, Arthur?"

Arthur laughs a bit, "So eager for spring, aren't you? It should return in a month or two. Winter isn't as long as people make it out to be."

Alfred nods his head. "I really hope that's true."

"Me, too," Arthur opens his book, moving about to find a comfortable position. He turns every which way before deciding to lie down and rest his head in Alfred's lap, scowling at the amused smirk on the face of the man above him. "Don't look at me that way." His last comment is murmured with a tinge of acidity to it that Alfred has grown used to, and rather immune to, in the three years he has spent with Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred's fingers, with a mind of their own, slowly weave in and out of Arthur's hair as the older man reads, nails scraping against the scalp in an enjoyable scratch, smoothing over Arthur's slight anger with him in seconds. The Survivor is lulled into a comfortable state, stretched out on his couch, reading a book with his head in Alfred's lap, pleasant enough where he can feel himself nearly nodding off to sleep every few minutes.

A thought suddenly comes to mind, and Arthur voices it, tone low and inquiring, "Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"The Elder is going to be reciting an ancient folktale today, while the beast is cooked. It's normally for children, but adults watch as well, and it might be a good idea, considering the folktales hold a lot of our customs and values…would you like to go? It should be starting in a few hours, when the sun starts to set."

"Hm," Alfred thinks for just a moment before responding. "I think it sounds like a lot of fun – let's go, Arthur!"

Arthur laughs, just a tad, before responding, "Yes, yes; we'll go. There's some time to kill beforehand, though."

They spend the day, until the sun begins to shift in color from blue to ginger behind the heavy gray clouds, in this very same way, silent, enjoying one another's company. Only then do they move, joining the gathering crowds in the center of town square, where – in the background – the massive bonfire has begun to burn. Yao stands astride the base of the fountain, smiling and welcoming the Survivors and their little children. "Welcome, aru! So good to see you all again! Take a seat, get comfortable, and gather around, aru! I hope you'll enjoy our folktale this Burning."

"He's very energetic," Alfred quips, as he sits upon a flattened log-turned-bench next to Arthur, resting one hand atop the Survivor's.

"The Elder always gets excited when he sees people. It's not often that he comes out of that house of his, you know."

"I wonder why he's always in there…"

"That," Arthur chuckles, the sound nearly drowned in the noisy chatter around him, "is something we may never learn in this lifetime."

The Survivors all take their seats, parents sitting close, small children sitting on either's laps or shoulders, the older ones sitting with their friends. On cue, each and every group – all except the teens and borderline-teens whose noise fell to a dim giggle – quieted, hushed by their Elder clearing his throat. The Elder begins to speak once again, his voice carrying well over the crowd and the muted roar of the bonfire.

"Now, I will tell a tale only for this occasion. The clouds are dark, the forest, they say, is dead…a dreary, white world of death. Don't get depressed when you hear this, aru!—but I must confess, this folktale pertains to very grave matters, indeed. I give you today, with just a month left of winter's wrath, on the date but not the month, the story of the old spirit – who some label as the guardian of our forest, laying our dead companions to rest when they cannot escape the beasts' hungry jaws – Elizaveta, dear to our hearts despite her tragic death and inability to reach us in time. We built the phoenix's fountain in her honor, named her an ally and a sacred, saintly spirit, for the good things she has brought to us through her death: awareness. Let us have a moment of silence to honor her, aru."

Everyone falls silent, hanging their head in respect for a woman they never met, nor knew, but held a deep compassion for over the years.

"Friends, I bring you this folktale: The Lady of the Wind." Short applause takes up but fifteen seconds, a quarter of a minute, before the Elder is allowed to continue. "There was one night, in particular, that a young man could not sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, but still, no sleep sealed his eyes. So, in a hasty decision to take a walk and calm himself, possibly lull him to drowsiness, the man stood up, pulling on his winter things, and strolled into the forest, calm with the knowledge that beasts sleep at this hour.

"It is possible that he thought himself alone, despite the whisper of the winds around him, coaxing the trees to speak in tongues, saying nothing, but saying it ominously, as if he should be listening a little closer. His previous calm left him the further into the forest his feet carried him. Another whisper, this time intelligent, frazzled his nerves forever, '_My friend? Is that you? Help me, please! Help me!_' And another voice, this time the winds, loud and ominous as ever, shaking the trees with warning, cried out, '_Pay no heed to it! Do not fall for the trap! Run back the way you came, dear man! Run, and do not look back, for you will catch its eyes and be held fast in fear!_' But he was human, and could only understand the human speech of the beast, pulling on its falsetto tone to deceive him so thoroughly.

"As the forest around him shrieked and the beast moved in for the kill, the man was just so…calm. He was set into a false sense of security, dazed, unable to shake himself from such a powerful spell. Danger began to yell at him, but he knew, in a moment of reflection upon his situation before death was to come for him, that the beast had caused a momentary lapse in judgment through its sweetened, enchanted words. But death never came. In fact, the beast had even left, by the sound of it. The winds were whipping wildly about his face, untamable, carrying a perfumed scent of exotic, blooming flora. In front of his very eyes, these wild winds swirled and morphed into an intangible woman, long brown hair whirling with the winds that composed her body. She was dressed in an outfit one would wear when taking a hike through the unknown.

"'_Are you frightened? Please, do not be. Nothing will harm you – I am unable to touch humans, but beasts…beasts are what I may ward off._' Her voice was but a whisper of the wind, and the man had to strain in order to catch her delicately spoken words. The man did not respond, so she continued, '_I died here, in this very place, by the claws and teeth of the very same beast that attempted to attack you just now. It was on my walk to freedom, young man. I took the path to this town in the summery night, ignorant to what threats lay in wait for me. The crocotta; that is my murderer's name. It spoke to me, asked for my help…and I fell for it, thinking the voice was from someone in danger._'

"'_But what does this have to do with me?'_ He asked the woman tentatively, confusion ringing loud and clear in his tone of voice.

"'_It has everything and nothing to do with you!'_ She gave him a sad smile. '_Know this, for it is important, and relay it to your people: when the summer days come, your trials will resume. Your last trial will be your most important, but do not mistake it for the finality of your hardships! They will come back full-force many, many years later, as a law of nature and disaster. But most important of all, keep this in mind: protect which is yours and the predator will fall prey to itself._' And just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.

"The man returned to town and quickly alerted the Elder. Indeed, when the summer days came upon them, they had to face flooding of their fields, multiple ambushes by smarter beasts, and a scare of the nearby city's government locating them. But with the man's passed words from the kind woman, they were able to prevent each and every disaster. Upon further investigation into the matter, the woman revealed herself once more, to speak her name to them, as the first of the three saintly spirits that protect our forests: Elizaveta, of the Southern District, the Lady of the Wind. Her words still ring clearly, a mystery as to when they will come to be important. Protect which is yours…and the predator will fall prey to itself." Yao's silence was engulfed with awed, uproarious applause at his recitation of a less-popular folktale, and the crowd went away thoroughly pleased.

As the two walk away, they swing their joined arms, discussing in low tones the folktale, its meaning, significance, and their plans for the night that had just recently fallen upon them.

And Ivan stands just outside the government building, Toris not too far behind him, smiling to himself at his cunning and thoroughly-planned speech to the Governor. "This will be, my dearest Toris, the beginning of their end. The Governor cannot deny me."

"Why do you say that, sir?" Toris eyes him as cautiously as he always does.

"He is in my debt. Many years ago, before the Slayers, one had gotten into the city and nearly killed him. I was there, still a young child as he was, but I brought him to safety." Toris cannot deny the dread that creeps through his veins, turning his blood ice cold. He knows now, that no matter what is to take place before the plan truly springs into action, it cannot and will not be stopped, despite all his hopes and morals being against it. "Come now, Toris. Let us set up this fateful genocide."

"Y-Yes, sir," Toris lowers his head, his body walking into the building while his head is screaming at him to _stop, no, do something! Don't let him get away with this!_ But what can he do? He is subservient to Mr. Braginsky, too weak in his own constitutions to muster up strength and courage greater than Ivan's wickedness. So he allows himself to be led into that office, listens to the eloquent speech Ivan gives to the stupid, _stupid _Governor, and hates himself a little more for allowing the tyrant to manipulate the people they both hate – one more than the other, while the other tries to love the soulless faces of society.

"Ah, Governor! It's wonderful to see you again. I trust you've been well?"

"Well enough, Mr. Braginsky. Come, take a seat. Your escort may take one as well," the Governor chuckles.

They do as instructed. "Now I have some important matters to discuss. Forgive me for being so…to-the-point and avoiding normal pleasantries, but this is rather important. A Slayer of mine has escaped, and with him, he took the Survivor I fear is responsible for the murders several years ago."

"Oh my," the Governor does not really seem concerned. "Do you have any proof of this?"

"Nothing solid, but an allusion towards it – it also describes, in high detail, the plans to get the Survivors into the city and overthrow the government." From his breast pocket, Ivan pulls a folded letter, and lays it in the Governor's hands for the aging man to read.

It is only when the contents of the letter are read that the Governor shows fear. Fear for his well-being, for his life. "This is a very grave matter, Mr. Braginsky…how did you come across this letter?"

"I had been searching said Slayer's—a Mr. Jones—apartment under heavy suspicion of his treason when I found it. He and the Survivor had fled shortly after I managed to put a pair of cuffs on their wrists. With all due respect, sir, I believe that the only way to prevent this uprising would be to stop it by force. I won't require any of your men, no, no military. All I will need are my men, and your backing and approval of this attack on the Survivors." Ivan frowns a bit, feigning concern, and places a hand on the Governor's arm. "It would certainly be a shame for you to be endangered once again, wouldn't it? I have a great admiration and friendship with you, sir, and with all my heart, I want to protect you and these people from those tyrannical Survivors. Please, sir. Let me save you, like those many years before."

The Governor has a full, solid moment in which he turns the whole ordeal over. His reply, however, comes out quickly from his lips, "You have my full support on this, Mr. Braginsky. All I ask is that you wait for the warmer months out there…much more tactical."

"Of course, sir. Thank you so much for your full support. I promise, you won't regret it," Ivan stands with a fake grin, Toris standing to follow after him. As they leave, Toris catches a quick glance at that letter, with its scrawled writing resembling Alfred's, and knows, even if he hadn't looked at it, that Ivan had written falsities upon a piece of paper.


	7. Interlude: Before the Fire

Cadence of the Spring

-Interlude: Before the Fire-

**A/N: **I know guys, really short chapter (though it's technically not a chapter…oh well). I wanted to update once, before a big four-day absence. I hate to admit it, but…I haven't really been working on CotS as much as I can. To be completely and totally honest, I kind of lost the will to continue on with it. Something happened, that's all I know – I fell face-down into some kind of ditch, or something (I blame my February schedule; it's so damn busy!), and CotS would not be what it is if I was not passionate about my chapters while writing them. I'm not really into writing 5,000-6,000-word chapters all of a sudden. It just won't come as easily as it could before. So…as a springboard to (hopefully) get me back into the writing spirit for CotS, here's the Interlude!

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Spring is a lovely time of the year, Alfred decides. When he is not hunting with the others, he is enjoying the weather, running through the trees and finding springs, bathing in them, laughing as the minnows slip around his ankles. Arthur works every day, leaving Alfred alone for nearly nine hours, allow him to satiate his growing hunger for knowledge in these times. Almost every book in Arthur's home has been read by the time spring is halfway done.

There are times when Alfred feels lonely. While Arthur works every day, Alfred works only four times a month. He almost envies this, Arthur's continual work schedule of gathering, mixing, helping out at the hospital, coming home and resting, then preparing dinner, and finally, resting, to repeat the schedule over again. Alfred would not tell Arthur of this envy. Instead, he sits with his feet in a pond, the minnows nibbling at his toes, and pretends that Arthur is sitting next to him, whispering in his ear all the secrets of the world, telling him how smart he's become, how _happy_ Arthur is with him…but he knows it will never be the same. It can never be enjoyed to the fullest, these visits out into nature, if Arthur is not there with him to tell him all the little things he never knew. Why do minnows swim so close? Are they not afraid of humans? Why do algae feel slippery against the skin, and why is it green? There are still so many things he wants to learn.

Alfred takes the risk of telling Arthur one day, "We're out of books…what am I supposed to do when you're gone, Arthur?"

Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes, "You could take a walk."

"I do that every day."

"Then write something. Poetry, prose…whatever comes to mind! Just jot it down on paper." And with that, Arthur slammed the door behind him, possibly late for work.

So Alfred sat at Arthur's desk, staring down at blank sheets of paper. Words flowed through his mind like a river, but no matter how hard he grasped them in his hand, they leaked out and flowed away from him, while more continued to enter his thoughts. Writing, he concluded, was much harder than Arthur had made it out to be. He'd gone to bed quite obviously frustrated that night, but said nothing when Arthur asked him, "What's the matter?"

'_Just go to sleep,'_ he thought. Arthur turned away from Alfred with a huff, now irritated as well, and scooted further away from him. He was slightly colder that night, and the whispers of the crocotta chilled him to the bone, but he thought the sound was relatively thrilling, for what it was worth.

The next morning was a promise of something to do other than read old books and attempt to write: work. No matter what, he was still passionate about his work. As usual, he woke up to a bed devoid of Arthur, though he could still feel the imprint (further away from Arthur's preferred spot with his back resting against Alfred's chest) of heat where the Survivor had been slumbering just moments before. Alfred dressed himself with gusto, grabbed his weapons on the way out, and met his work-companions at the edge of the forest. They talked a bit before heading in for the hunt.

With spring's arrival, there was a constant background noise to fill the soundless void that seemed to swallow them in winter. Alfred was happy listening to the mating songs of birds, always keeping this sound in the back of his mind, lest he forget it by winter's arrival. He often wondered if the forest still sounded as pleasantly cool and welcoming in the summer as it did in the spring. Having forgotten about his work, he snaps back into reality when a rather large foot breaks a bundle of tangled twigs left on the forest floor, this ominous sound followed by an even more threatening rumble of a growl. All the birds fall silent.

This beast is rather small. It stands, just barely, at Alfred's own height, casting its shifty gaze between the five of them. Quietly, Alfred steps to the back with Tino, pulling the bowstring back with an arrow until taut and just about ready to snap. Ahead of them the other three have begun their assault. Strangely enough, the beast does not attack when arrows are stuck into its body – it yelps and lays its ears back, bushy tail tucked between its legs, and begins to retreat. The Hunters follow it quickly, Tino and Alfred rounding out the back, while Berwald rushes to the front.

As the beast leads them on a chase through the woods, something occurs to Alfred. It isn't normal for a beast to _not_ attack them, so why is this one so different? The beast stops, looking back at the Hunters once, before hooking its claws into the bark of a thick tree and clambering up it, the whole tree swaying slightly as it sits stubbornly on the thickest tree branch. And then Alfred sees it—some thick vine, blended so well with the forest floor that it looks to be another tree root. Berwald is stepping forward, Alfred's heart is racing, and he shouts, "Wait!" But Berwald has sprung the trap.

Berwald is lifted into the air with a deafening scream of shock, the heavy log-counterweight falling to the ground making barely a sound with the echo left behind from such a powerful noise. Before the Hunters can spring into action, the beast makes a strange sound akin to laughter and attacks. It launches itself from the branch and onto Berwald's body, biting into the soft flesh, digging its claws into the clothing and shredding most of it off with ease. The vine buckles under the added weight and frays, snapping, sending both to the ground – the fall is broken with a terrible crunch of Berwald's bones.

Gilbert is attacking the beast in an instant. He digs into the flesh with his knife, Ludwig, Tino and Alfred backing up his fury with arrows.

The stubborn beast finally, after a great amount of damage done to its body, leaves its prey with a great chorus of growls and yelps, ears tucked back and its tail between its legs once again.

"Tino! Alfred! Get Berwald back to town immediately! Ludwig and I'll finish off the little fucker," with his mouth set into a grim line, Gilbert dashes after the retreating beast, his brother trailing after him faithfully.

Tino hands his bow to Alfred, grabbing Berwald and removing his shirt to cover at least some of the wounds on the bigger man's body with it. He shows no emotion as he lifts the no-doubt-heavy Hunter over his shoulders, barely shaking with effort, and dutifully begins to run back to town. Alfred follows silently, unsure of what to say, not knowing if he should blame himself for the beast's assault on Berwald, or if it's normal to feel guilty for something you believe you could have prevented.

It takes no less than half an hour to return to town due to spring's abundance in beasts and game, meaning they had to travel less in the first place to find the beast that caused all the trouble. Berwald is taken to a room immediately, and Alfred and Tino are left to wait outside the room for signs of his welfare. There is no talk between the two for quite some time, before Alfred notices Tino's constant stoic expression. "Tino?"

"Yes, Alfred?" Tino turns to look at Alfred, forcing a small quirk of the lips as if trying to smile.

"He'll be alright," he murmurs, giving him a true, real assuring smile.

Tino's lips quiver. He swiftly looks down at the ground, shaking his head. In a shuddering voice, "I-I…I really hope he will be."

He wants to know, he really does, so he asks despite the risk, "were you two close?"

To his luck, Tino smiles and laughs a bit, still looking at the floor. "Very. We've known each other since childhood. Ever since we met, we've been inseparable. He did scare me at first, I do admit that…but you do get used to it over time and after a while, his speech is very easy to understand." He pauses, frowning. "But I guess this is all just a bunch of chatter, huh?"

Alfred shakes his head in the negative, smiling at Tino again. "No. I think it's nice to hear about other people like this." As an afterthought, he adds: "And when you talk about it, it keeps your mind off of the nasty thoughts about your relationship with him, right? No one wants to think about their mistakes like that. Not when it's best to think positive."

Tino smiles a bit again, nodding. "I guess you're right."

Two Herbalists and a few doctors are carting supplies to Berwald's room. As they pass by, Alfred catches Arthur's eye, and the Survivor gapes in horror, fearful of what he might see in that room. 'He's right to look that way,' Alfred thinks.

The dark-haired man Arthur works with, Kiku, asks the two of them questions about the attack. Alfred ends up answering most of the questions, as Tino seems to go into a state of shock. After a long series of questions pertaining to the amount of time Berwald was attacked for, to the size and shape of the beast, Kiku finishes and makes a quiet suggestion that Alfred takes Tino home before speaking to the Elder, thanks him, and shuffles into the room with the others.

Alfred takes this advice, escorting Tino home (they speak to one another on occasion), before he heads down the path he remembers from his first days in town. Now the birds are out, singing their mating calls, letting Alfred relax for just a moment…and then he remembers his initial fear. With so many questions running through his head, Alfred knocks on the Elder's door, waiting with his muscles twitching from the jolts that seem to jump between them.

"Alfred! Is something wrong, aru? You look pale," Yao's mouth is turned down at the edges in a frown.

"It's about the hunt this morning," Alfred takes a deep breath, before murmuring the last part, "Berwald was hurt, but…but the beast led him into a trap. It was something only a creature with a high level of intelligence could make. I think – I think the beasts are getting smarter."

Yao lets him inside immediately.

After a long discussion, it is decided that the beasts be studied, and that the beast Gilbert and Ludwig caught will be examined for any physical features allowing it to create such a simple-yet-effective trap. Alfred leaves Yao's home and returns to his and Arthur's right afterward, changing into a fresh pair of clothes and sprawling out on the bed, his face downturned into the pillow, as if trying to suffocate himself. He lies like this for hours on end, not moving, not sleeping nor speaking—just laying there in what he feels to be reasonless misery—until a soft touch to his back begins to rub circles all the way down his spine. If it were not obvious who it was (and if he didn't know the man better), Alfred would have glanced up in curiosity. Instead, Alfred asks with a slightly muffled voice, "How was work?" He has forgotten his previous anger at Arthur, and even the reasoning behind it, due to the events of his hectic and somber morning.

"I should be asking you that," Arthur sighs, pushing Alfred over slightly so that he can lay down next to him, closer than last night was spent. Alfred wearily lifts an arm and drapes it over Arthur's chest, running a hand down to smooth the fabric gathered around Arthur's belly.

"You don't wanna ask me that," Alfred concludes, after a long moment spent processing the response in his head, picking it apart word for word before understanding finally dawned upon him, "but I should be asking how Berwald is. How is he? Do you think he'll make it?"

Arthur stops making circle-trails up and down his spine. Instead, he traces much wider elliptical shapes across his back, frowning (while Alfred cannot see his face, he can just _sense_ when Arthur frowns). "I can't answer that. He was pretty bad when I left work, but he's at least stable. There's a good chance he'll make it, but infection is really very likely, and many of his bones are broken from that fall…"

Alfred is silent for a long while. Arthur has resumed making those circle-trails up and down his spine, no longer worried by what he is saying. Quietly, but still loud enough for the Survivor laying next to him to hear, Alfred calls out that single word, that one name, that can bring so many different emotions to him at once: "Arthur?"

As if he'd read his mind, Arthur answers the unspoken question in a reassuring tone, "It's not your fault, Alfred. You couldn't have done anything about it. So don't beat yourself up about it, alright?"

Alfred turns to lie on his side, facing Arthur, and asks with inquisitive eyes, "Really?"

With a quiet chuckle, Arthur answers with the same question just uttered, now a statement. "Really."

They resume their usual nightly position, only Arthur is facing Alfred this time, and they hold one another through the night, both disappointed when the sun rises.

Alfred is stuck at home once again. He is not scheduled to bury the bones of the beast, and his mood was further dampened upon hearing that the folktale recitation for the evening had been canceled (and he had really been looking forward to hearing about the Guardian of the Northeast, Roderich!). So he sits at Arthur's desk, staring at the sheet of paper, and attempts to draw upon the river of ideas flowing in and out of his mind.

For an hour or so, he is unsuccessful. But just as soon as he was willing to give up, a flash of memory dances behind his shut eyelids – him staring into an eye, seeing himself in it, seeing blood…seeing anguish and hurt and _pain_, and he can't _bear_ to look at that eye anymore – so he opens his own eyes and realizes that he has just been inspired. He takes his time in writing down his thoughts upon the piece of paper given to him.

When Arthur returns home, he shows him his effort with a proud smile. Arthur ruffles his hair, reads it over several times, and casts him a look with a strange smile. "Very interesting, Alfred – I might just have to give this poem to the Elder. I do believe he'd enjoy this one." Alfred's cheeks flushed and his smile grew to a double-wide grin at the idea and the praise given to him by the other.

In the end, that poem was struck upon the very fountain that represents Elizaveta, the phoenix proclaiming loudly its existence. The downward-pointing beak points to the carved poem upon the ledge the Elder so frequently struts upon when reciting folktales.

* * *

**In the Eye of the Beast**

In the eye of the Beast,

one can see their own reflection.

With its blackened, grinning lips

and claws poised to grab,

you may find the greed

of humanity.

In the eye of a Monster,

one will find their own flaws.

They shun the reflection of their

souls, look away in fear of

what they might find.

I, too, once looked away.

It is only now, when I

have faced my fears, that

I realize too late that the reflection

of myself in

the eye of the Beast…

The eye served as a mirror,

and I…I was the Beast

I feared for so long.


	8. Chapter Seven

Cadence of the Spring

-Chapter Seven-

**A/N:** It's been a while, hasn't it? No, I haven't given up on CotS! I've just been very busy, and I had my first weekend off in a very long time recently, so I took the opportunity to write a particularly long chapter for you all. I hope it makes up for the very long gap between updates… Also, if you notice, all the symptoms of the drug mentioned are symptoms of the drug morphine. Please enjoy this chapter, and take it as my apology for being so goddamn late on the update…

---

_The wolf howls in the east. It glows with an eerie light, reds and blues and greens, its eyes a haunting yellow. And no matter where Alfred runs, its eyes follow him. He cannot escape it. Soon, he cannot see it anywhere but behind him, drawing close to his heels and nipping him sharply – so he runs faster, and his lungs are burning, and the only thing he can think as he tumbles over a rock is, 'I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead! Oh God – ' But he's not dead, so he glances up curiously, and sees those smart eyes above him._

"_Stand, Great One."_

_Alfred does as he's told, asking in a quiet voice, "Great One?"_

_"Yes. You are who I am looking for – the last to join a dying race." The wolf looks him over, its eyes searching for something not seen on the surface. "You are not much yet, are you? From the way you run, I can tell that you are not in-tune with your inner freedom."_

"_Excuse me?" First, the wolf chases him! Now, it's telling him he can't run to save his life? Granted, he had let the wolf catch him, but…_

_"Touchy, are we not?" It growls a bit. "It seems as though you are not at peace with yourself quite yet. That is the reason for your nightmares, is it not?"_

_Alfred begins to step back into the darkness of the forest, before he hears the whispers of the night and knows it to be the crocotta, looking for a meal. In an instant, his body tenses up._

_"Ah! Great One, why are you so afraid of the night-beast? He is nothing compared to what I once was." A nostalgic quality of voice mixes with its terse, male tone. "Then again, it was the beast that felled me."_

_"The crocotta killed you?" Alfred's curiosity has been piqued. "How'd it manage that?"_

_"If you are so eager to know, then follow me." The wolf turns, looking behind itself to fix Alfred with those sharp eyes. "And make sure to keep up, clumsy-Great One." It takes off at what seems to be an easy pace for itself, but Alfred must run to keep up with its leisurely gait through the woods. The two head towards a dark shadow in the distance. "When I was living, I was known as a Guardian. I raced with the winds to warn people of danger, and led so many lost in the woods to salvation in the village. None could beat me in a race, not even other beasts."_

_Alfred, between huffs of breath, asked, "You – were a – a beast?"_

_"Yes." It jumps over a log, laughing a bit as Alfred struggles to do the same. "Not all beasts are evil, as you will learn. Some are intelligent enough to speak, as I can. Others…others are quite stupid. Those are the ones that keep close to your village. Any beast like me would be found far away, near the mountains. There, the beasts are in less grotesque and purer forms, true to their original nature. I left that old home of mine to seek knowledge. None in my tribe were willing to communicate with humans. And so I left. Your Elder, Yao, taught me many things, and in return, I taught him how to make medicines. He told the villagers that I was a Spirit. I also warned him of the crocotta…the evil beast it is." There is deep hatred in his voice with the last sentence, and what he says next is pure revulsion. "I'd been returning from assistance in the east when it attacked me. The disgusting excuse for an intelligent beast ambushed me! It has no tact whatsoever."_

_"What – what happened – next," Alfred puffs, gladly slowing down to catch his breath as the wolf slows to an easy trot._

_"What happened next? I waited for you. And as I expected, you are what is needed for these people."_

_Alfred stops to stare at this strange beast. "…What? These people's lives are fine! What else could they need but distance from those beasts?"_

_"That is why you are not _quite_ the Great One yet. You fail to see their struggles aside from that. As your former city was ignorant, these people are also ignorant. What Yao has not seen is how he shelters them from the dangers outside. They cannot fathom an attack from the people who hate them so much. So what they do not see is naturally what will be their downfall. They forget as easily as the city-people do – we are all human, are we not?" The wolf slows to a complete halt, allowing Alfred to sit upon a log before it continues. "You know, the beast that set up that trap was a raccoon, at one point in its life."_

_"…Are you watching me every second of the day?" Alfred feels chills run down his spine._

_"From the time you leave that house in the morning to the time you enter it, and between that, when you are dreaming. I would never interfere with your personal life. Now then – that beast was once a raccoon. This is the only reason for its ability to set up a trap. There are more pressing matters to focus on."_

_"Such as?"_

_The wolf pauses for a moment before asking, in a very serious tone, "Do I have your complete, undivided attention? I will only say this once."_

_"Yeah, you do," once again, Alfred is curious as to what this strange beast will tell him._

_"Every morning, you must stand and let the air dance around you. Inhale it. Feel it. And when you know it well enough, like your own heart and soul, as if you were once with it and know its beautiful melody, dance with it. Run with it. Be _one_ with it! Never let that feeling go. You will find me there, with the wind, should you ever need guidance. I will no longer enter your dreams – it is far too energy-consuming, and I do love to run." It sighs, before turning away. "And as a final mention of what is to come – there will be signs. Look towards the east, Great One, and expect what you'll find there: pain. This will not be the last time I speak to you, I am sure, but it will be the last time I speak to you in a long while. Enjoy your happiness while it lasts, because the suffering will hit you hard and fast." _

_And it dashes off into the woods soundlessly, making no noise and showing no signs of it having ever been in front of him, except for the haunting memory of those golden eyes and the glowing colors of its wraithlike body._

As with such a dream, one would expect to awaken suddenly. Alfred woke so suddenly from his dreams so often since taking up his life in the village that he had come to expect it. But this…this was different. He didn't know why, but something was wrong. Arthur, as usual, had left the bedroom; his side folded neatly, everything intact, the way he always leaves it. With no signs of wrinkle, or tear, or him having ever fallen asleep there the night before, so sweetly pressed against Alfred's body.

"Arthur?" The call was tentative, worrisome. He felt, from his skin to the marrow of his bones, that something was very, very wrong.

Then there was a shout from downstairs. Arthur's voice mangled into one high groan of pain and nothing else—sheer hurt, sheer need, sheer _weakness_. The sound itself caused Alfred's eyes to go unusually wide. To hear a man he knew to be strong for most of the years he knew him was quite a shock.

The second time he heard a similar scream, Alfred jumped from bed and bounded down the stairs, finding Arthur at the bottom, crumpled into a little ball on the floor. One hand held the left side of his lower back, the other attempting to pull the rest of the body towards the door. "Arthur!" Alfred was at his side immediately, placing his hand on the other man's arm. Of its own volition, his hand shook Arthur's arm to get his attention. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

"M-My side," Arthur's breathing is only slightly labored from the pain. He's screaming again seconds later, so much so that Alfred winces from the intensity. "My side – my side, i-it hurts so much—! A-Alfred, ah! A-Alfred…" The free hand he hadn't been using darted out to clutch at Alfred's night shirt with a powerful grip, screaming again, refusing to let go, and slowly moving closer at Alfred's urging.

"What kind of pain?" He's asking _anything_ to get Arthur talking – he doesn't want the man to stop, for fear of what might happen if he does.

Arthur seems to take some time to consider this, because there's a moment of silence in which Alfred (now lifting Arthur from the floor with an arm around his chest) can only hear Arthur breathing. "C-constant. Ah! V-very sharp, and – and centers in the left flank!" He heard the man groan as the pain became not unbearable, but very hard to ignore, and his frustration at this was let out in a scream of pain mixed with dissatisfaction.

He'd just held him for a little while longer. Alfred hadn't been sure of what to do. When the green-eyed man coughed up foul-smelling bile onto both his shirt and the floor, however, Alfred was sure this wasn't something he could just wait out and try to comfort Arthur with. Arthur had done it very suddenly, and with no warning – but for some reason or another, as Arthur vomited once more (this time onto the floor), he seemed to forget his pain. Perhaps it was the furious working of his esophagus, or the burn as the contents of his stomach, acid and all were emptied onto the floor twice more. Despite such a liquid being warm, it held no comfort of the hearth, with its bad smell and even worse taste.

"Nn," Arthur made some strange sound, cheek pressed against Alfred's shoulder (and, incidentally, the spot of vomit that would soon become a stain), and began to scream again moments later. With no time to grab anything or clean the floor, Alfred swung Arthur over his shoulder, and carried him through the doorway, rushing towards the hospital, allowing the sudden whipping winds to guide him there, even after their roar was drowned out by the screams of the man on his shoulder. Halfway through the quiet, waking town, Arthur moaned and emptied his stomach for a second time. Alfred was only aware of this due to the retching sound and the warmth that covered his back immediately afterward. "Alfred…"

"What is it, Arthur?" When Arthur did not respond, Alfred allowed himself to continue, never slowing in his race to the hospital. He was close, thankfully, and that was possibly the only reason he bothered to talk further. "Don't talk if you feel like you're going to be sick again."

"Where are you taking me?" His voice sounded nearly like a complaint, between his clenched teeth and winces – Alfred could tell Arthur was trying his hardest to make no more sound, though he would voice it anyhow. And Alfred couldn't blame him. If that was his only outlet, so be it!

"The hospital," he answered, said building now in sight. He didn't slow down – in fact, he sped up, rushing for the doors with one hand holding Arthur securely against his body. Looking back at the situation, he would most likely regret the way in which he'd held the Survivor. If all of his pain was originating from his lower back, then no doubt the fact that he was constantly jostled and slightly bent over Alfred's shoulder only made what was wrong with him worse! But he'd gotten him there. That was the most important thing at that moment.

He could think about it later. Alfred knew he'd have _plenty_ of time to think once he was within the walls of that building. It was a breeding ground for negative thoughts and emotions, and you practically choked on the 'What Ifs' and 'Whys' and 'Is This My Faults' once inside. Shaking negative thoughts about hospitals aside, Alfred opened the same door to that same hospital for the third time since his stay in the village. By now, he was sure; most of the staff knew his name and face.

Considering the condition of the man on his back, who, as if on cue, began to retch the rest of what little he had left in his stomach onto the hospital floor and writhe in agony thereafter, it didn't take long for Arthur to be removed from his care and placed in a room to be properly treated. Feliks pulled him aside, mindful of the vomit still clinging to Alfred's shirt, and spoke with him. "Well, he looks like, really bad. I think he'll have to stay overnight, but—"

"What are they doing about his pain?" Alfred was only concerned with the fact that he could hear Arthur's hurt from down the hall.

"You've, like, heard of that morphine stuff, right?"

Alfred nodded. The one time he needed to be taken to the hospital, they gave him something with that name. "We used that back in the city, I think."

"Yeah. Well, we've got something that's just as effective. He'll react to it the same as morphine, so like, don't be surprised if he acts a little strange, m'kay?" Feliks flashes him a smile and does a strange little toss with his hair. His nose, upon detecting the foul and dissatisfying stench of vomit on Alfred's shirt, scrunches up. "Ew. I think you won't want to visit Arthur until the drug starts kicking in, so why not go home and get cleaned up? Change, wash yourself…you know, just a suggestion."

"I think I'll go ahead and do that," and Alfred had to laugh a bit, because really, how could he _not_ laugh at the whole damned situation?

"Good. Now take your time—Arthur will probably be out for an hour or two at least. Pain takes a lot out on the body, and the drugs _do_ make you sleepy." Feliks smiles at Alfred once more before walking down the hall.

So Alfred walks home. He walks through the doorway, stepping past the remnants of an Arthur he'd never seen with his hand held fast around his nose, travels up the stairs, and finds himself a new pair of clothes, a bucket, and a terrycloth towel. Then, he finds himself on the bank of a creek, stripping bare with the forest as a witness, wading in waist-deep, allowing the cool water to numb him. He washes himself and his old clothes as slowly as he pleases, and when he's finished getting clean, he takes up the terrycloth towel and dries himself as slowly as he wants to. Dressing himself in his new, just as simple and quite similar in style clothes, he hangs the clothes that no longer reek, but are dripping wet, on tree branches.

He fills the bucket with water and returns home. The remnants of not-Arthur seem to fade well enough with the help of the towel, but the stench fills his nostrils and his senses, and he's not wiping that memory clean from his mind like he intended, and _damn it_, if only—Alfred's arm moves of its own accord, and he barely seems to make his mind connect what he sees together at the broken ends. There's useless water on the floor, and the bucket sports a wonderful dent. With a great sigh, Alfred ignores the scent to the best of his ability and finds it much easier to clean up the messes around the house.

What should he do about that smell, though? He couldn't very well leave it for Arthur. No doubt he'd complain, and Alfred didn't want that after the incident that very morning. He hunts around for something, _anything_, really, to rid the home of the smell. Eventually Alfred finds a small bundle of incense and thanks his lucky stars, snuffing the rich, natural scent of the brown sticks into his memory. He places a few around the house and lights them, watching the one near the staircase burn itself down to non-existence. And once the home smells of Arthur's favorite incense?

Alfred sleeps. He gives himself just an hour on his internal alarm clock, just an hour to close his eyes and rest…really, he should have slept a bit longer, he knew. Stress was never good on the body, but…he was concerned, and he wouldn't leave Arthur alone at that hospital for long. Once the colors of the aurora in the mid-day sky mixed and faded, leaving him in the same room he'd fallen asleep in, Alfred rubbed the dream from the inside of his eyelids out, and stood, leaving the empty home.

His walk there was pleasant, when he didn't think of Arthur's screams of pain, or the way he—no, never mind. He wouldn't go there, no, _never, never, never_! And like that, Alfred was thinking of the forest in the different seasons.

How, in the spring, the leaves are green and vibrant, but the dead remains of the leaves from the year before are still sullying the ground, a constant reminder of cold and pain…and imminent change. In the summer, the leaves are all bright and happy, and seem to have forgotten their initial suffering. The dead leaves aren't there anymore. They can't hurt them with their summoning of old memories. In fall, the air cools, and their fun is over. Death is coming. They need to hide, so they change their appearance, turn shades of yellow, orange, red…brown. And they fall to the earth in an act of desperation. But the ground freezes over, and they die in the winter. The only thing to survive are the trees, who sleep, weeping while they do so…and spring comes again, and they're _alive_, so alive! And it feels so _good_, that they're going to forget!

Alfred shakes his head. _Everything_ seems to be ignorant these days.

When he steps back into the hospital, Feliks leads him off with a cheerful smile. "It feels nice to be clean again, right?."

Alfred doesn't know how to answer. So he doesn't.

It doesn't take long to find Arthur's room in such a small building. Feliks opens the door and gestures him in. "If he's still sleeping, then you can like, go home for a bit, if you want."

He takes a peek inside the room before stepping into the doorway. Arthur lays on his back, eyes shut peacefully, changed into fresh clothes, with no signs of his dire pain from this morning's dilemma. "I think I'll just wait for him to wake up."

"Well, like I said," Feliks reiterates what he'd said earlier, and of course, Alfred doesn't find it very important. As long as Arthur is awake, he doesn't care. "If he acts funny, then you know it's the drugs. I'll be in to check on you guys in a bit." The nurse leaves to attend to other important matters, so Alfred walks fully into the room, shutting the door behind him for privacy.

Taking a look around the bland, white room, he sees a countertop, a bed occupied by his sleeping companion, a chair near it – set out just for him, no doubt – and a skinny window that shows a sparse amount of trees, and other buildings in the small, quiet town. Alfred takes his seat and watches Arthur for signs of life. He watches Arthur's chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. If he were to hold his hand close to those slightly-parted lips, no doubt he could feel the life leave and re-enter Arthur's body, pushing oxygen all around the blood, preserving every organ necessary to maintain existence in this world. Alfred holds his hand out for just a second, and indeed, the breath beats against his palm in a steady stream. This thought comforts him, cradles him in security. Though he knew Arthur wouldn't die, he still felt it necessary to check.

If he gets close enough, he can hear Arthur's heart beat, pulsing under the ribcage, even with the rise and fall of the other man's chest. When he takes a hold of the hand he's touched many times by now, Arthur's warmth is shared with his own. Now that he has assured himself that Arthur is alive, and he has Arthur's hand in his own, he pulls the chair closer to the bed, making himself as comfortable as possible, and watches Arthur's serene, dreaming face. Beneath those eyelids, he is sure, plays memories, or perhaps colors, or maybe even fantasies he'd never be able to experience, and Alfred would never know unless he asked. All he is sure of is the fact that Arthur is safe. Arthur no longer hurts, and he is certain, from the untroubled expression of the sleeping man, that he is not experiencing some form of nightmare.

It's enough for him, just sitting there, watching Arthur sleep. He could watch that man sleep as long as he needed to – there was something strange about it. Just watching Arthur's sleeping body lulled him to a docile state of spirit, where he was no longer excited, depressed, or any kind of emotion, unless you considered the resounding warmth coursing through his body as one. It was rare for Alfred to see Arthur asleep. Normally it would be the other way around; he could almost imagine Arthur waking to Alfred, smiling a very small smile that can be so easily overlooked on the normally-terse expression of the older man's face, and how he might brush a few strands of hair from his face and crawl carefully out of bed, as to not disturb the sleeping other next to him. Even imagining this filled him with more warmth than before. Was it something about seeing Arthur being tender and gentle that brought him to feel this way? He wasn't sure.

There was, perhaps, an hour or so before anything particularly eventful happened in that room. Arthur's eyelids stayed shut, but his lips would move, and if Alfred held his ear directly over them, he could make out the murmurs of dreams slipped out though them. _"Young Autumn…russet…windy loops…forests…bare-foot Dance…"_ This piques Alfred's curiosity enough where he decides that he must ask Arthur about it when he wakes.

And then, as if suddenly aware of the light from the window shining down on his eyes, Arthur's eyes flutter open in a sluggish manner, as if still groggy, though he had been sleeping the past few hours with no signs of waking. Alfred holds his breath – holding Arthur's hand a little tighter – as those familiar green eyes fix on his own. The forest's treetops reaching up to touch the sky. The smile Arthur gives him is not the very small, nearly-unnoticeable one he was used to, but a very wide near-grin. "Good afternoon, Alfred."

"Arthur," Alfred responds, unsure of what he should say, knows that he must respond in one way or another. He notices how Arthur's pupils are rather large despite the light shining on them, and finds this as odd as the smile he was just given.

"How long have I been asleep for, d'you think?" The older man turns his head about casually to observe the room, taking note of everything, before turning back to look at Alfred with the same half-grin. Alfred feels Arthur twist his hand about in his own so that he is grasping Alfred's tightly, pats it with his other in an affectionate way. He hasn't blinked for a minute or so and just continues to stare into Alfred's eyes, as if fascinated.

"Three to four hours, at the least," Alfred says, staring back at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Is something…wrong?"

"Oh, no. Nothing. Nothing at all! No worries, love." Arthur's head tilts slightly to the side, leaning forward at the same time, and Alfred is, at the same time, weirded out by the sudden term of endearment rather than his name. "This thought just occurred to me now. May I ask you this? When you watch the sky, do you feel like you're looking up at your own eyes?"

Alfred leans back in his chair, bites his lip. What kind of question was that? Should he even _answer_? But Arthur was staring at him, looking hopeful…so he couldn't just _ignore_ the question. Alfred sighs, and begins to answer as best as he can without disappointing the other man on the bed. "I never really thought of it that way. It would be a little unnerving to try and think about it that way though, right?"

Arthur nods his head, smile widening into a full grin. Alfred cannot deny that he feels lucky to see Arthur smiling at him like that – when these drugs wear off, he knows that the smile will be gone, and will be replaced with one he's much more familiar with. "Ah, it would, wouldn't it? That's precisely why I asked, you know."

The door opens, and Feliks steps into the room with a very cheerful greeting, "Hello, you two! It's like, _so_ good to see you awake, Arthur!"

"Hello, Feliks," Arthur replies with his drug-induced half-grin, and looks at him with yet another curious expression. "Now that you're here, I can ask you a question as well. Do you know exactly what happened to me this morning?"

"Well, since you, like, brought it up, I may as well explain and stuff. We couldn't quite figure out what had happened, so we talked with the Elder about it, and he said that it sounded like classic symptoms of a kidney stone. A kidney stone is pretty much, like, a tiny little thing that forms in your kidneys and causes a ton of pain until you pass it. Seeing as the drugs should be entirely out of your system soon, are you feeling any pain?"

Arthur shakes his head in the negative. "None at all."

"Alright, then. Just, like, come with me and we'll run a quick urine test. If everything seems pretty normal, you can go ahead and leave with Alfred." Feliks waits for Arthur to hop out of the bed and step into the hallway before turning back to address Alfred. "This will just take a sec. Wait here." The two left him alone in that room for a total of five minutes, which he spent with one hand on the spot Arthur had just occupied, his eyes focused on the bright light from the small window, giving him just a tiny glimpse of the outside world.

When they return to the room, Arthur grins at Alfred. "We can go home now," he says, with undertones of laughter in his voice. "Feliks tells me to take the day off tomorrow. I haven't had a day off in a long time! I wonder if Kiku will be okay without me…"

"Good," and Alfred grins back at him, trying not to think about how unsettling it actually was to see Arthur like this. "And I'm sure Kiku can manage without you. Don't worry too much about it."

The two pass Feliks as they move out into the hallway. "He should be back to normal in, like, a few hours," he hears Feliks whisper, and gives the helpful nurse an appreciative smile before turning down the hall and walking through the doors with Arthur.

Their walk home is mostly silent, with Arthur staring at the sky (still grinning), and Alfred being thankful that his companion is, for the most part, back to normal. Alfred looks over at Arthur to find him totally engrossed with the sky, and takes his time to notice that Arthur's cheeks are slightly flushed – more noticeable in the outside light, as compared to his pale skin. His hair, he notices as well, looks a little messier than usual. Had Arthur not had the time to comb it in the morning, before he'd gotten sick? Alfred shakes his head, for he knows it hardly matters.

Once inside, Arthur takes immediate notice of the dented bucket, which Alfred had forgotten to put away, but seemed to care little about it, as he walks past it with no other indication of being irritated, and begins to head up the stairs. Halfway up, he turns and waits for Alfred expectantly. Alfred shuts the front door behind him, locks it, and follows Arthur up the steps into their room. Arthur takes his shoes off and crawls on top of the mattress immediately, resting his head on his pillow and yawning.

"Tired?" Alfred asks, his hand poised on the doorknob, body halfway out the door.

"Mhm," Arthur, with his eyes already shut and his hands folded across his stomach, nods. His eyes flash open, green brightening (or was it just Alfred's imagination?). "You're not staying?"

"I was going to go downstairs and write a bit," Alfred answers, brows furrowed, just as Arthur's own are. "Why?"

"_Well_," Arthur begins, looking him directly in the eye. "I was hoping you'd stay up here with me. It feels like it's been forever since we've actually spent time together, besides sleeping in the same bed."

Alfred laughs at that comment. "Arthur, it _has_ been forever."

"That gives you all the more reason to stay up here, now doesn't it?"

How could he argue with that? "If you put it that way, then I guess I'd have to, wouldn't I?" He takes his shoes off and lies down on top of the mattress in his own spot, arms folded across his stomach, and glances over at Arthur.

For a while, Arthur just watches him, looking only into his eyes. As soon as this has satisfied him, Arthur moves as close as he can get to Alfred, rests his head upon the Slayer's chest, and wraps his arms around the other's middle, still smiling. "You're very warm, you know."

"And you're a little out of it," Alfred responds, smiling down at Arthur's scalp. He lets one of his hands wander through the soft, flaxen hair of the other.

"I knew that already, though. Sometimes things look strange when my eyes are open," Arthur just seems to babble now, trying to lull himself into sleep. "So I think I'm just going to close them until all the abnormalities disappear."

"If that's how you want to handle it, then so be it."

Arthur laughs a bit. "It _is_ how I'm going to handle it." He stops talking for a long while – long enough that Alfred is almost sure that he's fallen asleep – but speaks up one more time before falling entirely silent and going back to the level of sleep he was at just moments ago. "It's a lot easier to fall asleep when you're next to me. I don't know why, but…there was always something about you that I never quite understood, up until now."

"What do you mean by _that_, Arthur?" He never got a response. Arthur had drifted away, and he wouldn't talk to him again for another hour or two. By that time, he was sure; Arthur would never let down enough walls to mention it again.

Alfred lays in silence, with the golden light streaming into the room, stroking Arthur's hair for an hour or so. He's only thinking of what Arthur has been saying, trying to process the information in his mind, like putting together the hardest puzzle ever presented to him. If he tries hard enough, he can almost bridge the words together with the meanings; yet the meanings are never fully processed. He just seems to be thinking, thinking, thinking, never absorbing the full meaning of what he's just thought up. Pointless words running rampant through the brain, running, running like the wolf in the winds – all the colors, made of tendrils of something nameless and unidentifiable, swirling, running, dancing a bare-foot Dance – and he can't make sense of a lick of it. It's only when he's forced awake that he realizes he'd closed his eyes and daydreamed.

Arthur was prodding at Alfred's side, hovering over him. "Hey. Wake up, Alfred."

"I wasn't sleeping," he protests, eyes opened to Arthur's face. Arthur's pupils seem to have shrank, and, for the most part, are back to normal. There is no flush to his cheeks, no straight stare into his eyes with minimal blinking, no grinning.

"And I'm _sure_ you weren't. That's exactly why your eyes were closed." Arthur rolls his eyes, though he ruins his façade with a yawn and a stretch of his limbs. "It looks like the sun is setting." He moves off of the bed, onto the floor, and over to the window, looking at the orange-tinted outside world.

Alfred follows him over, wrapping his arms around Arthur's shoulders while he looks out the window. While Arthur is looking out at the forest and the setting sun, Alfred is watching Arthur's reflection in the window. "How are you feeling?"

"A little off; kind of spacey. It's a very curious feeling – I'm not sure whether I like it or hate it." Arthur sighs, leaning his head back to rest it upon Alfred's shoulder.

"No pain?" Alfred presses his forehead against Arthur's temple.

"No – no pain. You don't have to worry about me, Alfred," Arthur says, as he slips out of Alfred's grasp and heads for the door. "I'd like to watch the sun set. Would you come with me?" Alfred follows him out the door, down the stairs, and out into the forest. Not knowing where they're headed, Alfred sticks close to Arthur's side, watching him with curiosity evident in his eyes. Arthur looks over at him with a smirk. "Is there something on your mind? You keep staring."

"Actually," Alfred begins, grinning at him a bit, "I heard you saying something in the hospital, and I wanted to know what it was."

Arthur takes his time to think this over. "Did I…was I awake when I said it?"

"No," and Alfred continues with a bit of embarrassment, "You were sleeping, actually."

"Well, then I'm not sure what you're referring to." They walk up a hill, where the sun is visible over the low-elevated trees.

Alfred tries to forget about it when Arthur says that. He should have figured that he wouldn't remember it at all. The two lapse into a comfortable silence while the sun sets, watching the golden-orange light turn the sky a beautifully violent red. So far away from town, they do not hear the news of the body being uncovered on the left-side path to town square. Some poor, unfortunate soul who'd ventured too far away from town and been attacked by a beast – now no more than bones with sparse amounts of flesh still clinging to the calcium. They would hear, oh yes, they would hear. And this would lead Alfred to his suspicion, following the words of the wolf in his dreams.

He holds Arthur's hand, kissing the back of it. Arthur returns the grip as well, and lets their lips mingle well into the night, even after they've returned to their home. Eventually it isn't just lips that touch lips, but lips that meet every inch of skin, every sensitive area, and cause sounds to erupt suddenly from their throats.

What else they are not aware of, however, are the invaders in the night. How the Commander and his mostly-willing forces slip in, quietly, and break into the solitary home of a solitary person, knocking them out, bounding their arms and legs tight. And Toris looks on with horror at what he can't stop, taking pity upon the blond he's forced to carry, fearful of what may befall him.

Toris sits alone, in the night, next to the still-unconscious man, and begins to question himself as the others sleep inside their tents. Next to him sleeps Ivan, and on his other side, his newest guilt, but he whispers only to himself. "Why do you keep doing this, Toris? Why are you letting this happen? And now you have this captive to worry about…"

"Are you still awake, Toris?" Ivan's eyes are upon him, and it occurs to him that, perhaps, he hadn't been asleep yet.

"U-uhm, yes. I just…I just thought I heard something, that's all."

Ivan laughs, as if amused by Toris' inability to lie. Toris wouldn't be surprised if that was why he had. "I'll let you lie to me this time…only because I am so very fond of you. Now what is it that is bothering you?" Ivan is probing him, he knows, with those cold violet eyes. Toris shivers, and quite fearful of the answer, asks a question off the top of his head.

"Well, I was just wondering…why did we take a captive if you just want to burn the village down anyway?" Toris glances at said captive once he is mentioned.

"It's very simple. If I don't have to kill all these people just yet, then I won't. All I need is a little chat with their Elder, you see," Ivan pauses, as if to let this part sink in, "and, depending on how things go, I will _kill_ every last one of them. The captive is just here as a cushion. It gives more…_incentive_…for the Elder to speak with me."

"D-do you…do you _know_ the Elder, sir?" Toris' eyes are wide when Ivan turns his head stubbornly, eyes narrowed, as if fighting back some strange kind of pain.

"I did, quite a long time ago. I'm much older than you seem to remember me often saying, Toris."

"So you – you don't really want to kill these people, do you?" For some reason, there is a bubble of hope rising in Toris' chest, making him hopeful that, maybe for _once_, Ivan won't hurt anyone in his insane quest for whatever it is he's searching for.

"I never said _that_, Toris." And that bubble pops, leaving him empty and at a lower level of feeling bad than where he was when they began. "I would kill them if I got the chance. But that's not what I'm here for, so I cannot unless my main objective fails. The Elder is what I'm here for."

"S-So you _lied_ to the Governor?" Why does he feel so appalled that Ivan would pull such a trick? It shouldn't surprise him.

"Of course! The man is so easily manipulated. It's a little sad, actually." Ivan turns onto his side, facing away from Toris. "Now I think you should get to sleep, Toris. Tomorrow is the start of many options. It may be a new beginning for the Elder or an end for everyone. Either way, I think you'll need your energy."

"Yes, sir." Toris grudgingly lays himself down, facing in the direction of their captive. Looking upon his face and finding something strange, he grasps the feeling, marveling at how reposed it makes him feel. With his eyes shut, he sorts through his options and decides. No harm will befall this man. No harm shall befall him, if it's the last thing Toris does, because Toris is sick of this. He's sick of Ivan, and the cold, and being forced to do the most immoral things. And if it's necessary, Toris will lay his life on the line to end it all.

It's only a matter of time.


End file.
